Imaginary Pictures
by jolnnlock
Summary: There's a new boy in class and everybody likes him. Not that Sherlock would care, as long as 'John' leaves him alone... -A teen!lock AU from Sherlock's POV which focusses on his thoughts and feelings and lots of pining -Present Tense, POV First Person
1. Chapter 1

It's form time in our class on a Monday morning and rain patters down onto London, heavy clouds darken the light of day. Not an uncommon occurrence and I usually favour this over bright sunlight, though today I can't stand it.  
I guess I'm just tired.  
The experiment yesterday took far longer than expected and there's only so long you can last without sleep apparently. Oh, I loathe sleeping; it's so time-consuming and unnecessary.  
Body's just transport.  
Is it possible to stop listening to your body's needs? One never knows, if one hasn't tried after all.

A glance at my watch confirms my sense of time to a point, in which our teacher is late five minutes now.  
All around me the others are engaging in tiresome conversations and once again I'm rather relieved that I'm not a part of this and the seat beside me is empty.  
I rest my chin in my hand. Maybe I could take a nap right here, nothing happens anyway.  
I have to suppress a yawn and close my eyes slowly. It's rather nice actually, and not less comfortable than I'm used to, since I fall asleep at my desk at home more often than I care to keep track of.

The sound of muffled voices dies down eventually, which either means that our teacher has finally found her way to our class or the others have also decided to take a nap. Unlikely though.  
I can hear her now, thanks to nerve-wracking high heels. God, I hate them.  
But there's more; another pair of shoes.  
Sneakers.  
Male at our age, going by the sound of scuffing feet.  
Someone lost his way? New classmate in mid-year? Trainee?  
Damn my curiosity.

I crack an eye open and glance over the other's heads. A brief once-over reveals short light brownish hair, tanned skin and dark eyes, and confirms my suspicion of him to be a new classmate.  
Dull.  
Miss Courtsey states some facts about him and feels the need to advise him of the rules for class, which he will ignore like anyone else, sooner rather than later.  
With a sigh I close my eyes again. I don't think she'll teach us something after all, and I'm not surprised either.  
Finally the boy is dismissed and takes a seat in one of the front rows. There he'll stay for about a week probably, until he's found someone to follow around.  
I risk another glance at my watch. Ten more minutes to go and then an entire hour of boring History stuff.

Lovely.

The rain paints an obscure design at the window and I occupy myself by finding a pattern within the water drops.

* * *

Apparently I had been wrong - At least I would have to admit, if I'd care about it. But since I don't care, I shan't admit it.  
Within two days the new arrival has not only found himself someone to follow around, more precisely it appears he is the new leader of their small group, consisting of three blokes, whose names I never cared to memorise, and Mike Stamford.  
The latter leaves me with a bit of an odd feeling, since Mike had never cared about being popular, and was also the only one I could come to for notes, if I hadn't been in school. It's amazing how fast the new boy got a reputation suitable for this development.

Amazing?  
Well, let's just say: The human mind responds to the appearance of leadership rather quickly.  
Boring.  
Dull.  
Predictable.  
Though as long as he leaves me alone, I couldn't care less.

His name is John apparently. At least everyone around me is constantly saying 'John', talking to 'John', speaking about 'John' or just whispering the name like a secret.  
I'm not eavesdropping. I don't have to.  
It's just the common topic of conversation. You can't get away from it.  
And the fact that he's now sitting next to Mike in front of me, is not helping at all.

Though the first thing I really notice about him is actually a piece of jewellery.  
A necklace, in any sense of the word.  
Dog Tags, to be precise. Two small pieces of metal, pinging together every time he moves. And although they're hidden inside his shirt most of the time, I'm still able to hear it.  
It's so annoying.

Where did he get them anyway? Can't be his, obviously. He's far too young to have a pair of his own, so might be his father's.  
Violently killed in battle?  
Most likely.

I almost consider switching my place to avoid the nerve-wracking pinging sound, and let's not forget: to get out of the way of seemingly hundreds of people, because someone always walks up to his seat or drops something 'accidentally' on purpose right next to him.  
But all of this is nothing compared to the sheer horror, which clutches me every time, someone considers my desk's corner to place their rear on it.

Luckily, it's enough to scowl at them until they get the hint and leave it be. And although all these 'things' are rather inconvenient, I can't bring myself to actually sit somewhere else, because I, myself, had declared this seat to be the best place to have: If I don't want to be seen, it's enough to just lean slightly to the left and I'm almost invisible, the temperature is good at summer as it is at winter, and I can see and hear everything I want to. So I stay and ignore all of it.

* * *

Almost five weeks into our new class situation and the hype around him is still on-going.  
It's fascinating somehow. I wonder if I'll ever understand why he's so famous. He doesn't look at all like someone I'd associate popularity with; rather small, most boys - and even a few girls - are taller than him (this doesn't seem to concern him though). He smiles a lot, from what I've seen thus far.  
Also Mike and John appear to be close friends now, at least that's how it looks like.

Not that I'd been looking, though.  
It's just; I can't help but notice their laughter, and their bickering for that matter.  
Mike always follows him around like a puppy and the other three boys (I can identify them now, since they're constantly hanging around their table) Alex Broody, Paul Hanson and Brian Lent are equally as mesmerized.  
I'd have to chart any further development, maybe conduct an experiment...

* * *

Two months now.  
Deemed the experiment to be rubbish. I have much more interesting things to investigate.  
Also: I brought the art of ignorance to perfection. Well, I was quite good at it before, but nonetheless.  
That's also the reason I don't even notice it, when John talks to me for the first time. Only when I hear Mike saying something in the lines of 'He's always like that' with a nod in my direction, I realize: John was talking to me.

I didn't reply to him though.  
My own reputation is the best excuse for nearly anything.  
I'm the 'Freak'.  
I'm the one who knows everything, the one who speaks faster than others may think. I'm the one who gets rude without warning or cause, the one nobody wishes to associate with. And as I said before; I rather prefer it that way.

I don't need anyone.

* * *

Only a few days later, _he_ captures my attention again.  
The setting is nothing new to me: I sit alone at my desk before class, thinking about everything and nothing in particular, when some guys walk up to me, mocking and taunting me. I only spare them a glance from below.  
They're not worth any effort or time and Mummy would only be disappointed if I got into a fight.

"Alright girls, leave him alone. He's obviously high above your standard." I don't even have to look to know, that it's John who had spoken. Good righteous 'John'.  
I don't like him.

This statement however brings the boys to turn around to him and John sends them a smug grin. The redhead of their group (clearly their leader) stares at him in disbelief.  
I'm about to insult them after all, to lead their interest back in my direction, when I see the redhead leaning down to ruffle John's hair. They end up laughing and taunting each other even more.  
What happened there?

Eventually they leave and John raises a hand in greeting at their retreating backs and smirks. I don't know what I'd just witnessed, but I'm suddenly angry.  
"I don't need your pity," I growl at him.  
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," John says and turns to smile at me. "Also you don't look at all like someone you need to have pity for."  
I give a curt nod in confirmation and bring my attention back to read through the notes I've taken. For me the conversation is over.  
The silence lasts only a moment though.  
"Why do you always sit alone? Don't you have friends?"  
I circle a random word (which doesn't mean anything, but he wouldn't know) and ignore him.  
"You don't, do you?" John presses on.  
I scratch a few numbers next to my writing, "Alone is what I have, alone protects me," I say in the end.  
"This is rubbish," he huffs. "Everyone knows that Friends protect each other!"

This stills my hand and I look up to glare at him, "If it's not too much to comprehend for your little brain: I'm busy," I tell him, using the coldest tone I can muster.  
He chuckles to himself (and for God's sake, how can anyone be so self-confident, so arrogant? It's preposterous!); "We meet at Bryan's home later. D' you want to join us?"

Well, this was unexpected. I'm a bit startled and have to blink a few times. "I can't", I say eventually."I didn't even tell you when."  
"Doesn't matter. I still can't." I resume my scrawling.  
"Can't or won't?" John waits patiently for an answer I don't plan to give him, leaving him to his own deductions. "You're not quite the speaker, are you?" he continues amused.  
I carry on ignoring him, and he turns around with a small sigh just as our teacher enters the room.

Finally.

* * *

Another rainy day in London, although it's a Thursday this time.  
Since John joined our class almost three months ago, things had become surprisingly different.  
The others search for his approval like nothing else, and since the one time he called those blokes off of me, they've... not stopped, but lessened their taunting game and ignore me, which is a relief for me.

Also since this day, John's turning around to me more often and it gets harder to overlook his efforts, probably because he's always so damn... understanding about me.  
And he doesn't seem to be perturbed at all, about me being oblivious.  
'Hey Sherlock,' he would start most of the time (the opening is not varying very much), and I would only look up at him, revealing nothing whatsoever.  
Then he'd tell me something about his rugby training, the kitchen disaster his sister had to account for, or his grandmother's complaints about him being away too often, due to too much rugby and friends.

I never say anything, but I notice he applies himself to make it sound eminently funny: He makes ridiculous expressions and sometimes disguises his voice to make me laugh. He does have a really expressive face and knows how to use it. I don't do him the favour of laughing, though sometimes I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling.  
Between talking, he slips in a question once in a while.

I don't answer it though.  
At some point, he would start with a 'We wanted to go to …,' this is usually the part to fill in with whatever is planned for the day, and ends in a variety of different 'Join us?'.  
And every time, I would just shake my head and resume whatever I'm doing.  
'Maybe next time,' he'd say, smile at me (I can't actually see that, but he always does it, and yeah, okay, maybe if I make an effort I can see it through my eyelashes), and turn back around.

I'd look back up then, and stare at his profile while he talks to Mike. I wonder if John just asks me to join him, because he knows I'll decline... though I can't see the logic to that, in fact why he bothers at all with me is a mystery to me.

Probably he just can't stand that he's not loved by everyone (me). I am the blind spot in his eye, and he wants to get rid of it.

* * *

Today it's sunny in London. Only a few clouds cover the sky and are more of an accessory than an actual threat of rain.  
John is even more cheerful than I've seen him before, or at least, whilst talking to me.  
He's about to explain how he means to tackle his comrades off their feet in his after school rugby training, but I'm only listening with one ear. Which is more attention than anyone should be spending when talking about sports if you'd ask me.

I'm concerned about the bacteriological culture I set up yesterday which is likely about to die, due to too much light in my room. Mummy has probably opened the closed curtains to 'let in some light', which is just ridiculous.  
John is doing something moronic with his arms to demonstrate his plan and laughs and it's too loud and suddenly far too much.

My hands crash down onto my desk and causes John to fall silent.  
"Can you just. Leave. Me. Alone." I hiss at him and the words ring through my ears like an echo.  
Mike turns around and is now looking at me in horror and my anger vanishes in an instant.  
What have I done?

"Not good?" I ask tentatively, quietly.  
"Bit not good, yeah," John confirms and clears his throat. I watch him when he turns back around, and look at Mike, searching for help. He just shakes his head and also turns.  
I stare at their backs and again I wonder; what have I done? I don't know what it means that I can suddenly feel a flimsy ache in my stomach.  
I inspect the papers in front of me and suddenly realize, I haven't written a single word.

Why?

* * *

He doesn't turn around to me the next morning.  
Nor the morning after that.  
I watch him when he talks to Mike, laughs with Alex and Brian or bickers with Paul.  
He overlooks me.  
Well, now I can go back to ignoring all of them, like I always have.

Quiet.  
Calm.  
Peaceful.

I look down at my notes, my pen hovering in the air.  
I've nothing taken down whatsoever.

* * *

So it seems John is really rather stubborn, if you ask me. He hasn't turned around to me since this incident four days ago.  
Didn't say 'hello' or acknowledged me in any other way.  
And I've no idea why it bothers me this much. Why it even bothers me slightly.  
Somehow I can't just go back to ignore everything around me.

Isn't it hateful?

* * *

This night, I don't sleep.  
And for the first time it isn't due to an experiment or an unfinished thought.  
I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling and I feel guilty. Today I'd hit a new low.  
As before I couldn't keep my eyes off him.  
Off John.  
Stupid.

Every time someone walked up to him and asked for anything, I found myself listening. And the few times I caught myself staring, I forced my gaze back down.  
How can I bring him to pay attention to me?  
I haven't the faintest idea until Ms Courtsey entered the room, our latest test in hand.

Perfect.  
So I took hold of the paper she handed out and let my gaze slid to John once more, who's looking at his own test.  
'Oh,' I said watching him, '98 out of 100 again.'  
John froze briefly, I could see the way his shoulders sagged.  
He didn't turn around then.  
Oh.  
Of course he wouldn't.  
Only because he has marveled my intelligence before, doesn't mean he wants to be confronted with his own stupidity. Who would ever wanted that?

I sigh into the darkness and try to sleep.

* * *

The weekend passes and Monday arrives.  
He's still not talking to me.  
Or spared a glance in my direction for that matter.  
My eyes switch from John to Mike and back. I try to wait patiently for them to end their conversation, my fingers tapping out a fast rhythm on my desk.

I'm really bad at being patient.  
I clear my throat once.  
Wait.  
They're still talking.  
I try again. A bit more pointedly, harder to miss.  
They fall silent and slowly turn around to look at me. And why did I think this was a good idea?

"Yes?" John enquires and Mike raises his eyebrows at me.  
"I-, I'm...," God, calm down. You're actually stammering, you've never done this before, keep it together. I clear my throat again for good measure, which supplies a few more seconds to sort my thoughts. "I'm not very good at conversations." I come up with in the end and feel myself blush.  
Body's betraying me.  
They both blink at me surprised and when John breaks out into a wide grin, I feel so ridiculously relieved... how comes I didn't notice how much I missed his smile?

"My sister's just the same, especially talking to adults," John assures me and giggles. "Do you have any siblings?" he asks and I'm only too happy to take the bait.  
"I've a brother, he's seven years my senior, though I don't think he has such problems. He wants to become a part of the government later." Is this too much information?  
"Wow," John says astonished and Mike's mouth is hanging open.  
"I don't like him," I add in lack of anything else to say.  
"Well, I can imagine," John blinks a few times. "Though the question is: Does anyone actually like their sibling?"  
Mike shakes his head, "I don't think so."  
John frowns at him in return, "You're an only child."

"Well, I might not have siblings, but believe me, it's really hard to rival with a dog. Or three of them," Mike states dryly.  
"Sibling rivalry at its best!" John starts to laugh and Mike joins in, while I watch them a bit helpless.  
John takes a few calming breaths and then grins at me again. "We wanted to play some rugby later. Are you coming?"  
It doesn't sound appealing to me.  
At all.

I nod in agreement and John beams at me. I have to force myself to look down, afraid I would give away too much.  
The smile tugging at my lips feels strange and rusty and wonderful.

I can't remember the last time I've been this happy.

* * *

Okay lovelies, I'm so sorry I had a problem with the format... It should be better now though, I hope... :/

Love, Cx


	2. Chapter 2

My Father once said, I wouldn't spot devotion or loyalty even if it would bite me.  
Well, that's obviously not true. I just need longer to read people's feelings, to understand their convictions and motivations.

It took me another two weeks to understand completely that what I had witnessed before, was John Watson doing what he thought to be the right thing.  
He didn't wanted to impress anyone.  
I'm aware now how everyone is happy following him around. Not because of the appearance of leadership as I believed before; no. It's simpler and more complicated at once. I don't think I'm even able to state the facts _why_ that is. It's just... _him_.

Since John started talking to me more frequently or drags me along with his friends, his popularity has somewhat subsided, but will never die down entirely. I can tell.  
The other boys, Alex, Paul, Brian and Mike are getting more and more used to me. Though Mike's the only one really trying to engage in conversation, while the others eyeing me with suspicion. And not unwarranted as I belief. Surely everyone has something to hide and they suspect correctly by thinking I know their secret...

Paul, for example, has a little brother, who's autistic. Sometimes I catch him staring at me. He feels uncomfortable when I'm around, because I remind him of his sibling. He's not all too far off track, since even my parents had their suspicion when I was younger. Still have probably.  
Though_ I_ 've outruled this possibility years ago. Now I like to think of myself as a high-functioning sociopath.

Alex on the other hand didn't get his bruises from rugby training, as he makes everyone belief. I wonder how anyone can overlook the obvious signs of abuse or negligence. He scowls at me every time I look at the new forming marks. When I meet his eyes, there's a moment of recognition.  
_You know.  
I know.  
_My parents might never have laid a finger on me, but it doesn't take much to imagine what they're putting him through.  
_I keep your secret, you keep mine.  
_And we do.

The worst thing Mike has to hide is his love for sweets of all kinds and he doesn't even make a secret of it (why should he?). He's lucky he burns so many calories with sport, or he would probably look like a version of Mycroft.

Brian is in love with his brother's girlfriend. He stares at her every time they walk past us. I can't exactly tell what happened, but going by her behaviour, she not only knows this, but did _something_ to him. Maybe she kissed him, or even worse? I'm not really interested to gather any details to be honest, though I wouldn't go that far as to say she did it on purpose. Could be that, in a state of alcoholic insanity, she mistook Brian for his brother? At any rate, she's definitely got a bad conscience and doesn't know what to do about it.

What John is hiding from me, I've not fully figured out yet. The only thing I notice regularly is that he's very concerned about his sister (younger most likely), still living with her mother and stepfather, while John lives with his grandmother during the year (he'd told me some time).  
But his anxiety doesn't surprise me at all. Because the level of concern he comprehends is unfathomable for someone like me.  
He worries constantly. About everything apparently. Not only his sister.  
How his brain is able to handle this, is a mistery for me - as is his respect for everyone - grown ups, children and elderly people just alike. And even animals.

'I don't really like dogs,' he would say one time. And I'd look down at the battered lump felted fur at his feet, drooling and wheezing, where John had saved it from a nearing car.  
I'd then gaze back up at him, a question in my eyes, I'd not have to voice. Because he'd know, what I'd want to say. (And if he'd be wrong, I would enjoy the confusion in his features) Though right in this moment, he'd be right and say 'No living being deserves to be hurt, not even a stray dog' while he would pat its head awkwardly.

And that's it.

This was the first time I took an imaginary picture of John Watson, when the compassion and mercy in his eyes corded up my throat.  
Since then my brain is pasting one special corner in my mind with his being, his all alone. Gathering there are snapshots of different facial expressions and everything he says I soak up and store it right next to them.  
The fact that I'm not even concerned about this phenomenon should probably tell me something. But every time I try to think about it, he captures and holds my attention again, until it's exclusively centered on his being.

He's always there now: When we're together in class, John would occupy the seat beside mine and we'd be communicating throughout it. I couldn't even keep track as to how this became something of an all day occurrence. It was all of a blur somehow.  
Even during lessons we exchange a paper between us.  
It's rather simple actually: you only have to do it so obvious that everybody else ignores it, just hide it in plain sight.  
While in other classes you have to pass it over, when the teacher turns away or leaves the room.  
In other other classes, you can't do anything else than just duck your head and wait until the lesson is over. Because, although I don't care what people might think, I also don't want to put John into trouble.

Another thing he does frequently now is copying my notes and I guess I should probably be annoyed about that or feel used, but I don't. He doesn't make me feel as if he just needs me to use my transcripts for later understanding. I'm even more careful with what I take down and I bestir myself to transform my rather scrawly handwriting into something legible.  
Just for him.  
And the grateful smile, I get in return every time, makes my stomach flutter.

* * *

Since I've got nothing more important to investigate, I started the experiment I wondered about: Is it possible to stop listening to your body's needs? And if yes, how long can one maintain a certain level of disregard without experiencing any kind of trouble?  
For this investigation I put back my sleeping habit to three hours a night and eating only every two days in the evening (or if Mummy should insist on it).  
Eating so scarcely is not easy in the beginning, my stomach makes funny noises and John frowns at me when he's heard it. I started clearing my throat in order to drown out the sound of my stomach. Sometimes I even believe it works.

There's been made far greater sacrifices in the name of science after all…

* * *

"Jesus!" John exclaims next to me. "What have you done?"  
"I don't know." I say frowning. Actually I do, but it didn't work out the way I wanted it to. The flame of our bunsen burner has turned green and the test tube is cracked somehow.  
John huffs, "OK, let me get this straight: although you're an idiot, you're an unharmed one?"  
"Yes. Well, more or less," I allow, looking down at my hand - there's a cut on my palm, a red mark.  
When he reaches out to touch my arm, I flinch back and he hisses in sympathy. "Oh my God, sorry! I didn't wanted to hurt you," he turns around to our teacher. "Mr. Shepherd, sorry to interrupt, but Sherlock got himself injured." His voice sounds strained and somehow far away although he's actually standing right next to me.  
I'm still staring at my hand; now there's blood leaking. My hands are shaking and I feel dizzy. What is this?  
I feel- I feel...

_Pain.  
_God, my head _hurts_.  
I blink my eyes open. John is above me, looking simultaneously concerned and relieved. Only he would be capable of this. "Sherlock? You okay?"  
I groan in answer. I hope this is enough, because I doubt I'd be able to do much more.  
I didn't actually faint, did I? _God._

There's not only John hovering next to my head. Actually most of my classmates are lurking in a close proximity. Also I get uncomfortable aware of the fact that I'm on the floor: my calves resting on a chair, my neck is pillowed on John's forearm.  
I should probably move, though instead I close my eyes again for a moment. I could happily spend my time bathing in John's smell surrounding me.  
People are talking above. John, our teacher and somebody else. I don't care really. I've never noticed that John smells so nice, something warm and reassuring...

_Okay, you've probably hit your head quite hard.  
_I groan again, taking my legs off the chair and try to sit up. John helps me, his arm sliding lower on my back, supporting me. You wouldn't expect the strength of the muscles he wields in his arms and it's too easy to just play weak a little longer: I close my eyes again, leaning sideways against John's chest. I can feel my heart pounding, the adrenalin comes flooding back; I feel like leaping to my feet and running around the classroom a few times.

"Sherlock? Can you walk?" John asks and I can feel his chest vibrating under my shoulder.  
I sigh inwardly and force my eyes to open and stay that way. "Of course I can walk." I can't help the indignant tone in my voice and his jaw clenches. He sits back and pulls his arm away.  
Damn.  
I watch him when he stands up and turns to our teacher. "I'll take him to the nurse, if that's all right?"  
Mr. Shepherd nods. They exchange another few words, but I'm not listening. Instead I look around the room, noticing how everyone who was watching our display, quickly averts his eyes.

Interesting.

"So Sherlock, John will bring you to the medical room. Are you okay with this?"  
Mr. Shepherd. Now he's stating the obvious. I sigh inwardly again, but don't comment on it and just nod.  
He pulls me to my feet and holds my upper arm until the room stops swaying before my eyes. "Good," he gives me a small pat on the shoulder and turns back to the others, calling them to silence and back to their seats. John appears beside me again and tilts his head in the direction of the door.

* * *

Together we make our way out of class and down the hall. The fact that John's walking very close to me, is somehow impossible to _not_ notice. Probably he's concerned I'd faint again. It's embarrassing really.  
"Here, eat this."  
John again. He's holding something out to me. I inspect it suspiciously. "What's that?" I ask, and look at him.  
He rolls his eyes in answer. "Chocolate. Just eat it. It will help to increase your blood sugar level."  
"Oh," I say a bit awkward, "thank you."  
He grins at me and I feel myself mirroring the smile. "Oh, it wasn't actually my chocolate. One of the girls, Tina, gave it to me. I think she likes you." His smirk gets even wider, while mine falters.

I think you're wrong. I believe she gave it to you, because you asked for it, didn't you? I doubt she would've waste it for my benefit. Surely she wanted to impress you. Now you'll remember her name after all.

People are just so... transparent.

* * *

When we finally arrive at the medical room, the nurse fusses over me for a few minutes. Now I've got a bandage around my right hand instead of a tissue which someone had provided me with while I was out cold.

"So, young man," the nurse says eventually, patting my other hand, "Now you're ready to go again."  
John shifts beside me, "Are you sure? Couldn't he be having a concussion? He hit his head quite hard on the desk when he fainted."  
I blink surprised. Questioning an authority? That's not like John. I search his face and see a light blush tinting his cheekbones. _Why?  
_He's watching her instead of me, his arms crossed before his chest. I look back at the nurse and see her eyes switch from him to me and back again. There's a smile tugging at her lips, though she's trying to hide it.

"Do you have a headache or feel dizzy?" She asks me, and committedly points a torch light in my eyes, first the left then the right one, and repeats the motion.  
I shake my head and have to close my eyes against the sudden blurring of the room.  
"Well," she says amused and smiles at me, "I'd say a concussion is highly unlikely, though you're maybe not that ready to go after all. Stay put, I'll get you something to eat."  
"Uhm, I've got some chocolate," I say, revealing the one John gave to me before.  
"Ah! That's perfect! Well, then eat that and still, wait a few minutes until you leave. I'll get you some water though. Just - don't touch anything, will you?" She says and winks at me.

I frown at her retreating back and look at John, who's blushing again. What did I miss? It's really annoying.  
John grumbles, taking the chocolate from me and opens it. I watch him when he dumps the wrapping in the bin and feel the necessity to jump to my feet and rescue it from there, to treasure it as evidence for John's caring. His caring for me.  
He presses the chocolate bar in my hand and fixes me with a serious glare. "When was the last time you've eaten something?"

I take a hesitant bite from the Heath-Bar and am about to say, that it was just this morning (although that's not quite true, it was yesterday morning, when Mummy dragged me to), when I'm interrupted by John's fierce voice, "Sherlock Holmes, are you lying to me?"  
I blink at him in surprise, I haven't even said anything. "No, I'm-"  
"Oh come on, don't give me this shit! You're clearly thinking about it! I can't believe it!" And I don't understand why it would upset you. "Why aren't you eating? I've heard your stomach growling rather disturbingly in class, so - since you're obviously not a girl, trying to impress their crush - what d'you think you're doing?"

I look down at my hand and am fairly sure that I'm the one blushing this time. Maybe I am trying to impress you, though I don't understand why I'd have to be a girl to be willing do so. "Why?" I ask to distract him.  
"Well, there're girls - I guess most girls actually - who just stop eating to lose weight, in an attempt to look better for their crush. At least they think so, but it's rubbish. My sister did this once or twice already and she's only fourteen..." he shakes his head somewhat exasperated.  
I nod in understanding, although I don't see the point really. I hope he doesn't expect an answer to that.

When the silence stretches between us, John chortles amused. "Maybe when you get harmed, all the blood rushes to your brain to tell your body that you're in pain. And suddenly there's no strength left to hold your body upright and then you just... faint." I give an indignant snort at this point and John giggles. "Or maybe you just can't look at blood."  
"I don't have a problem with blood." I've watched enough documentaries, read enough books, wondered about its look, taste and amount in great detail - it's just ludicrous.  
"Maybe just your own then," another chuckle from him follows, "Actually a pretty normal thing. It's mostly either your own that triggers you, or only that from others."  
Well, I am not a 'normal' person. So I don't believe it's that, but I don't call him out on it and instead ask, "How about you?"  
He smiles widely at me. "Neither actually. I want to become a doctor later," he admits.

I nod in a manner I hope would be considered as surprised awe. Because it's not surprising at all to me. I can see it in his every move: deliberate, practical, sophisticated. In the way he cares for people, trying to solve a problem before someone else would even notice it as a misunderstanding. He interferes and acts as a broker between the involved parties and I marvel his ability to do just so. It seems to be his mission in life.

"What do you want to do later?" John inquires, after I haven't said anything for too long.  
I blink a few times, "I don't know yet. I don't want to work in a job in which every day is more or less the same, I loathe a predictable course of events. I want to decide what I do - and when."  
John nods in understanding, "Invent your own job then," he says grinning at me. "Or you could come with me, become a doctor too. Surely you wouldn't be bored," his grin gets impossibly even wider.

I guess I should probably say something in return, but I'm unable to for a moment. His words are repeating themselves in my head, over and over.  
He would bear me throughout all those academic years? This thought makes something twist in my stomach and I swallow the last bit of chocolate with difficulty. "I'm not good with people." I say in the end, looking down at my bandaged hand again.  
Now it's John's turn to give an indignant snort. "You can learn to deal with people, if you really want to. And besides, my Mum always says that the best physicians are more likely to be rude than others. Because they're more concentrated on patching you up than being concerned about stepping on your toes."

I look up to stare at him in astonishment. How is it he's only just sixteen years old and already so mature?  
He gets nervous again, his brows are drawn together and his cheeks are burning. What did I miss this time?"I mean -" he stumbles back into the conversation, "I don't think you're rude! Because you're not! I mean -"

Ah. He thinks he's offended me. I don't feel insulted. I wouldn't be by anything he says.  
"John," I interrupt his string of incoherent stammering, "It's okay, really." I search for his gaze and hold it. "Thank you," I add to underline my sincereness.  
His eyes sweep lower, coming to rest on his feet and he mumbles an apology 's a moment of silence following and the awkwardness clears away a bit. Now, one could almost describe it as companionable.

"You know," John begins quietly, "My father was a soldier. He died two years ago, during his second mission. Only days before he would have returned." He swallows and even I can sense that it's not easy for him to talk about this. I'm frozen into immobility. Afraid that he would stop if I'd move somehow. When he speaks again his voice sounds forced to be steady. "The physician at hand couldn't help him - couldn't even reach him. When he finally did, it was too late, the wound too fatal..." He trails off and touches his t-shirt subconsciously, where - I'm sure - his dog tags are resting against his skin.

My hand twitches. I want to reach out and... what? Comfort him?  
Stupid.  
Instead of reaching out, I clasp my hands together in my lap. I've never seen him looking so sad. So lost. So...vulnerable. What is this feeling inside my chest, that so suddenly and so thoroughly grips and chokes me?

My mind snaps a picture of him in this state and labels it with 'Hope To Never See This Expression Ever Again'. He should not be looking like this. He should be… happy, like he always seems to be. I take this as a note, to change course whenever he's about to look like that.  
"I want to be a doctor and help people," John carries on still watching the floor, "So that there's no child left without his parent, only because there wasn't a doctor at hand."

"Why don't you become both?" I ask gently. It's so obvious that you somehow seem to think you should step into your father's shoes.  
His eyes find mine again and I can see the surprise in his gaze.  
Although you already seem to know me so well, you're still baffled when I succeed in reading your mind.  
We hold the gaze a few moments longer until he sighs and looks at his feet. "I don't know, maybe-"

We're interrupted by the nurse coming back in; she sets a glass of water in front of me and sits down at her desk quietly.  
The moment, so promising, is broken unfortunately and John laughs awkwardly, rubbing his neck. "Well Sherlock, just- down the water and we're out of here," he says and glances at his watch.  
I nod and feel strangely disappointed. I take a large swig from the water and down it in one go. No point in stretching the time any longer now that the nurse is back in the room.  
John grins impressed and with a last advice as to eat more frequently, we make our way back to class together.

* * *

Trust the weather to rain down onto London whenever you don't want it to.  
And apparently it works the other way round too: because today the sun is shining and our PE teacher had decided that it is a great day to play some rugby.  
I don't like sport. No, wrong phrasing: I loathe it.  
Especially sports with much body contact are a dread to me.  
I'm good at the things I want to be and I detest to be forced to do something I don't want to. Unfortunately though I'm considered too young to decide, whether or not I do what is asked from me.

I'm lucky that my hand is still wrapped in the light bandage, so I'm presented with a perfect excuse not to join the class in these two hour sports period.  
So instead of running around the field chasing goals, I'm watching John and the others play 's amazing how he's able to handle the ball. And I envy everyone in his team of how close they can get to him without anyone thinking of it as incongruous.

It's enthralling how he smiles when he'd earned a point and how he looks at me, grins and checks if I've seen it.  
I smile back every time. Our gaze never last long though, because suddenly someone is patting his back; shaking his shoulders or seizing him in a manly hug; which somehow leaves me with a queasy feeling.  
I can't bring myself to actually read the book I brought especially for this event. So instead I spend my time taking imaginary pictures of John Watson; smiling, running, waiting, laughing, blinking against the bright sunlight or catching his breath.  
I'm not picky.  
I treasure every single one; there are so many to admire and I long for each new expression crossing his face.

A whistle blows somewhere for a break and I watch the boys amble weary to the benches lining at the side.  
Gathering my things, I make my way over the field to join them, but I have to stop mid pace. Because what is presented to me makes my knees go weak.

John (who else could it be?) had taken a sip of his water bottle and is now leaning forward, pouring the remaining water over the back of his head. The way the water seeps through his short hair, runs over his face and drips off his nose leaves me breathless for a moment. And the sun chooses exactly that moment to come out, bringing the water drops to gleaming perfection.  
My mouth is suddenly very dry.

I swallow down the flutter in my stomach and force myself to look around the crowd of young men to remind my legs how to work.  
I can see John clear now. His hair had taken on a darker tone, still wet and dripping.  
When I finally arrive next to him, he smirks at me and suddenly I'm covered in a cold spray of water, because he's shaking his head like a dog in an attempt to dry his hair.  
Or possibly to annoy everyone standing close to him.  
Which works just fine.

While I blink surprised, one drop hanging in my eyelashes, Mike, Alex, Paul and Brian are on their feet, armed with their own bottles and are trying to 'pay him back' with more water.  
Their game carries on for a few moments but dies down eventually, when our PE teacher shouts across the field to stop them.  
With one last splash of water the boys put their weapons down, laughing and taunting each other. John now grins at me and I feel impelled to smile.

His expression changes astonishingly fast from frank, happy and laughing to concerned. He frowns as if to ask what's wrong, but I can't tell him.  
I'm not quite sure myself.  
So I just shake my head to decline his anxiety and try another, more convincing smile. He reaches out for me and gives my arm a gentle squeeze.  
_God_, does he actually think I might be mad at him for those few water drops on my face?  
No.

This is far more intimate.  
Although his hand is still damp, his fingers leave a lingering impression of heat on my arm and my skin tickles where he touched me. This is new - after all he'd touched me before - but I've never experienced it like... _this_. I half expect to see an outline of his hand when I look down, but there's nothing and when I flex my fingers, the impression vanishes.

Pity.

Mike and Brian are suddenly standing next to us, I didn't see or hear them move. For someone who's blamed to be too observant, I'm really rather inattentive.  
Since John's attention is captured by the others, I stand by watching them.  
Well, _him_.  
Now I can have a closer look, while he's preoccupied. His hair is still moist, his eyes are gleaming and his cheeks are still slightly pink from the heat of the game. He looks happy, content and laughs at a comment from Mike.

This one drop leaking out of John's hair could be either water or sweat.  
I'd have to taste it to be certain.  
I force my gaze down and swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. My fingers are curled into a fist, my knuckles have turned white by the force of it.  
_This_. I've read about this. About this feeling.

Now I know what's wrong: I'm in love with John Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

When I was younger - around the time my parents stopped talking to each other altogether - there was only one person to whom I could come to: Mycroft. Neither of my parents has ever been someone I'd engage, if I'd been faced with a problem. (As worse a problem you can have when you're six years old.)  
Just then, when the gaping abyss of our seven year age difference didn't mattered yet, there were moments I felt awe, marvel and gratitude for my brother. I couldn't tell him then, not able to voice those feelings yet, instead I just smiled at him and he could read the entirety of it in my eyes.

During these years, starting when I was about six, he read all those detective stories to me. From Edgar Allan Poe's 'C. Auguste Dupin' to Agatha Christie's 'Hercule Poirot' and 'Miss Marple'. Maybe one could blame him for my interests in crimes and corpses.

Maybe I should.

After I'd asked Mummy some (presumably) rather worrysome questions about the duration of rigor mortis... well, let's just say: She was quite horrified when she found out where I even got the knowledge about that at my young age. And I was crying silent tears of regret, standing next to Mycroft while he was scolded by her.  
I can still see it before me: Mycroft's lips pressed together with restrained anger and my hand wrapped around the hem of his t-shirt; the way he tried to untangle himself from me and me holding on to him even tighter.  
I wonder if Mummy was afraid I would start murdering people to live out my curiosity. Stupid really: I was never enthralled with dying, only with the dead. I was fascinated with how people could differ murder weapons in art, size or shape just going by entry and exit wound.

Following this incident Mycroft and I grew apart from each other. He felt betrayed because I'd told Mummy and I felt betrayed because he actually stopped reading the stories to me after that. He would also stop running around with me, just sitting in his study room, reading, learning. Every time I went to him, he would wave me away with a weak 'Maybe later, Sherlock'. Needless to say: he never complied with it. So I tried stubbornly to read the detective stories all by myself - I was eight then.

Only a few weeks had passed when Mycroft went away to this fancy private school and we lost contact altogether. I was left behind in our large house, where you weren't allowed to do anything really interesting in fear of soiling the chambers.  
I strictly refuse to think about this one time I wrote to him in an act of adolescent foolishness, he never replied to me though.

And when Mycroft got accepted as a government apprentice - just a year after he'd left - our parents were over the moon. Especially Father was enormously proud that at least one of his sons would resume his work. The fact that I was only nine years old and could have still stepped in his shoes didn't mattered to him. He never had much faith in me. Or probably he just knew, that I wouldn't have done it anyway.

So since our family is rather small and kept in on themselves - and with my brother gone - I had nobody else I could come to during these years.  
And not since.  
Well not until John made an effort to talk to me.  
So it's all the more surprising that I came to the sudden realisation to be in love. Though to think it would get better after defining what's bothering you was rather optimistic surely - I know. The situation however got gradually worse before it got completely out of hand.

* * *

Love.

It always seemed inaccessible for me, like a fairy tale parents told their children to make them sleep at night, believing that there's still goodness in the world.  
I read about 'Love', about the chemical defect that is a variety of hormones, Serotonin and Oxytocin, Dopamine and Adrenaline (could be dangerous). So the textbook definition of those hormones gave me an idea of how being in love was supposed to feel like - but _truly_ feeling it, is just... overwhelming.  
I can't even describe it. It's like... since I learned to read music notes when I was barely six years old, I could imagine how a composition ought to sound like, but I was not able to actually _hear _ the music.

And now I can- thanks to John Watson.

Each time he's in close proximity now, I can almost sense him. It's like a tingling sensation under my skin, like two magnets being pulled towards each other. And I'm hyper-aware of his presence and absence the entire day. Everything seems a bit too clear, too sharp around the edges and it's his fault. Is it always like that? Does it always feel this way? How can anyone cope with..._ that_ ?  
When he's around, the emptiness inside of me seems almost... gone, refilled with John's everything: his caring, his worries, an abundance of his smiles, the delicate structure of his skull, the different tones of his tanned skin...

John's corner in my mind is filled to overflowing. There's too much I want to keep there and it feels like it gets in the way of other, important, stuff. So I added another three corners and four walls in my mind and John had earned himself a room: Especially designed to lock and keep my thoughts about him there while I'm occupied with living.  
And what started as an attempt to stay uncompromised during the day, is now a brilliant solution for all of my knowledge to be handled. So I started to file all my thoughts and ideas in different rooms for school stuff, childhood memories and personal interests (the ones that weren't in any way linked to John) with much space to add other rooms if needed.

* * *

The nagging source of distraction at the moment: Attention. Not the one John pays me, or even the one I pay_ him _.  
No.  
Suddenly I get really aware of how many girls come to our table and are trying to flirt with him. (And John is a shameless flirt to my horror.) The girls get seemingly nervous when he turns his attention at them and cracks a smile; I know that feeling pretty well; I've encountered it myself a few times already.

Have they been doing this before? Walking up to us so frequently? And its only now that I notice? Or did I simply not care before? Though that's not possible I think.  
Because - oh - the jealousy! I was never confronted with anything so... _consuming_ before.  
It's embarrassing how the space that separates us is disturbing me now: I was both close and distant to him before, so who would have guessed that it would change that much with the simple awareness of a feeling?

Certainly not me.

If he's not around I wonder what he's doing and who might be with him. When he's with _me_, I wonder what he's thinking and how I could get closer to him without being too obvious.  
Once or twice I gave in to the desire and leaned in his direction to read over his shoulder, while he wrote something down in class. Inhaling his smell, I watched the small hairs on his neck stand on end when I read out his written words, softly; whispering them like a secret to the smooth skin there. He stopped writing then and turned his head to look at me out of the corner of his eye with a frown on his face.

And all I could think was '_closer, just turn your head a bit further, just a little..._', instead I nodded as if I had found what I was looking for and retreated to my side of the desk to note something down myself. At those times I could feel his gaze on me for a few moments longer.  
He never said anything though. Why? I can't decide if I'm relieved or sad about it.  
But still; it will get easier to bear with time surely? Or will it get even worse? Should I end our friendship in order to keep myself distant? Though I'm definitely past this point, aren't I?

So the question is: How do I know - how does _anyone_ know - if there's anything I could do about it, if the other one feels the same?  
I need more data.

* * *

Today its gloomy outside, though not actually raining for a change, and we're on our way to Cambridge by train - at least of where we're going I'm fairly certain. If I recall correctly to visit the local Open Day of University or something in those lines. I actually only joined this event because John wanted to, though I don't really understand why, since he told me he'd prefer to go to Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry. Probably he just didn't wanted to stay in school while there was a legit excuse not to be.

John and I were lucky by getting hold of an empty compartment when a couple just left it. I sit down in the seat at the window and John falls in the seat beside me with a huff. We now have to spend about two hours here and I don't care in the least, because John is with me.  
He always thinks my deductions are 'Amazing!' and 'Brilliant!', so I entertain him with different life-stories whenever he asks me to, and I laugh with him whenever it's really embarrassing.  
So when our train stops at a station somewhere between London and our destination, John would pick out someone and just ask me to deduce their motive to be right here at this very moment:

"What can you tell me about that man over there?" he inquires, pointing at a bald man with a mid to end thirty woman at his elbow, keeping aloof from the other passengers, smoking and wearing sunglasses.  
John's hoping for a scandalous story; I can hear it in his amused voice, but the truth is actually quite sad.  
I look at the incongruous couple a moment longer. He is in mourning, probably lost his wife not long ago and that woman is his daughter steadying him, stroking the arm she's holding onto. His hands are shaking: that cigarette is his first after decades of non smoking. He doesn't want to be here any longer – be alive any longer – and his daughter knows it. The clothes he's wearing – much too large for him – are an indication of his weight loss and his not caring anymore.

John is watching me, I can feel his gaze. I don't want to make him sad, so I shrug and turn to him. "That's his daughter. They're on the way to the store, he needs new clothes," it's not even a lie.  
"Ah." John's eyes bear a question I'm not willing to answer, so I turn back to the crowd.  
"That guy over there," I say, nodding in his vague direction, "was out of hair gel this morning, so he styled it with his own cum."

John blinks at me and then breaks out into hysteric giggles while I grin at him. "That's not true!" he gasps eventually, wiping a tear from his eye.  
I shrug amused, "It could be."  
He's still laughing when I excuse myself to go to the toilet. I try not to touch anything more than it's really necessary and am tremendously relieved when I'm done. I vow myself not to drink anything else until we arrive at home.

.

On my way back, I walk past the guy with the styled hair and have to suppress a grin. His hair is definitely not held up by gel but something different. I open up the compartment door, the embarrassing statement already carefully worded, when I notice that we're not alone in there anymore.  
That's the problem with John: You can't leave him alone for a moment, or other people will search his proximity.

But it's not only the issue that there are suddenly Mike, Paul and Alex sitting in there, nor that Alex is sitting in my seat. It's merely the fact that John is playing a new game apparently. He invented it himself: He wets his lips with his tongue and then suddenly flings himself at the boy sitting to his right (Alex), to press a moist kiss to his cheek with a loud smack. John then settles back in his own seat, giggling.

Boys.

When they're younger they dislike girls, impute them with horrible diseases and exclude them from their games. Or they catch toads to put them into their friend's underwear and engulf crisps, bananas, chocolate and tomato ketchup mixed up. (At least that's what I've come to understand of 'normal' boy-ish behaviour.)  
Then when they're older, they're obsessed with girls, buy magazines with much naked skin (or even watch porn), talk about blowjobs and whose girlfriend got the best curves. (Yes, I've heard them talk about such things mostly initiated from Brian or Paul.)  
Though right now, at their current age, there's only one thing they're kind of anxious about. And that is to be considered a homosexual, because 'gay' is a horrible insult.  
So, there you have it: A new game is born.

John's victim crumbles his face as if someone had hit him. He wipes his cheek with his palm and makes a choked gagging sound while the others are cracking up.  
This kiss, the one John just gave Alex, lets my stomach drop and leaves me numb. Not because of the kiss.  
No.  
But because it hadn't been me sitting next to John. It hadn't been me, being the receiver of his misguided affection. It's the revenge of the universe, telling me to never leave him alone ever again.  
And now here I am. I thought I could just steal all those hundreds of pictures of him, save them in my mind and leave unnoticed. But now, in this dashing vessel, the sheer amount of pain ripped those illusions apart.  
I am undone. The blatant emptiness crushing around me is so agonising, it almost hurts me physically. Because this, this emptiness, is unbearable. And it can only be filled by one person.

Him.

Him, him, him, him, him.  
Him. Him, him, him, him, him.  
And so on.

Neither John nor the others have noticed that I came back in, but now Mike looks up and nudges Paul with his elbow. His voice gets all squeaky when he says, "Oh Sherlock! You can take the seat at the window if you want to. Don't you think, Alex?"  
Grinning, Alex just leaps to his feet in response and settles next to Mike.

This is my chance. Maybe the one and only?  
Confidently, or at least I hope it looks like it (it's not easy with my knees all weak), I make my way over to the window and settle down next to John, while the other boys are trying to suppress their laughter. The conversations had subsided. I can feel their eyes on me, when they glance expectantly from him to me and back. The tension is almost palpable, but nothing happens.

Minutes pass; I can't keep still anymore, my hands are shaking. I look out of the window, or more precisely: I watch John's reflection in the passing shadows. I try to be both: Blessedly unknowing but also an easy target for the nearing strike. The muscles in my neck are already starting to feel stiff with the effort to keep my cheek presented to him the entire time.  
When our train passes a tunnel and the light is the most reflected, I can see him move before a hand grips my shoulder and firm lips are pressed against my cheek.

Finally.

Although I want to die of happiness, I know what I have to do right now: I get to my feet with all the indignation I can muster and swear and curse. I do the obligatory gagging sound about twelve times, I even stomp my feet and it's far too much but I can't help it. The others are laughing at me. John is the loudest of them all. I can see his eyes glinting through his eyelashes.  
"Oh, you think this is funny?" I ask him boisterously. And before I even know what I'm doing, my hands grab his face on their own accord and I press my trembling lips onto his surprised mouth.

It only lasts half a second, but I don't need any more proof to realise: I'm completely and thoroughly doomed. And every last bit of hope, that I might not be in love with him after all, is lost; declared to be wrong, oh _so_ wrong…  
This time it's John's turn to be indignant. He wipes his mouth with the fabric of his shirt furiously and sputters. The boys around us are guffawing, I'm not sure they're even able to breath anymore. I settle back into my seat and force myself to laugh with the others, although all I can think about right now is how hot his mouth had felt under mine. My lips are still tingling and I feel the unbearable desire to touch them, keep the feeling just a bit longer, but I don't.  
I've tasted something foreign, something new and now that I came to know it, I can't let it go again. I need more. I must have it somehow. Must have_ him_ somehow.

The others are still laughing, but I've stopped. Suddenly I can feel the burden of what I've done and I'm terribly scared. God, what was I_ thinking _?  
Oh, right. I wasn't.  
I gather the strength to look at him when I can't bear it any longer, my heart is pounding against my ribs. Though what I find there, reliefs me a bit: He watches me with amused astonishment. In his eyes I'm the winner of this battle. I fought and won with his own weapons. He could've been offended or play the abused party, instead he's grinning at me.

'_Wait till I get you_,' his eyes tell me, '_You might have won the battle, but the war isn't over yet_.'  
'_Oh really?_' my gaze says in return, '_I want to see you try._'

* * *

The remaining time passes by uneventful while our destination approaches rapidly. And with Mike, Alex and Paul still sitting in our compartment, there is a companionable background noise filling the air when they talk with each other or play cards.

I, on the other hand, occupy myself with the issue of how to steal more kisses from John; because that's what I do. Like those imaginary pictures I've taken of him it would be a theft.  
Tough there's still one more thing I ache more for than his lips on mine: I want him to _know_, that I yearn for him, that I think about him the entire time.

And I long for the day he offers himself to me, of his own free will.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _I'm feeling kind of stupid now that we've met Sherlock's parents in canon... So here have an other version. Sorry about that._

** A/N**_:Also sorry it's a rather short chapter, but I'll make it up to you tomorrow! X_

* * *

The university of Cambridge is really rather impressive (even more so than it was shown on several pictures) and even the light drizzle raining down on us as we arrive, can't lessen it's appeal and cautiously we make our way through the hall.

"Oi, Sherlock! Look at that!" John exclaims, moments later, a few feet away from me in a more or less whisper tone. I look up from where I'm inspecting the inscription of one of the photos on display: He's pointing to his left and above. I walk over to him and narrow my eyes at the dark corner.  
"What?"  
"You have to-" John tells me and with a hand around my upper arm pulls me down a bit in his line of sight.

I blink at the corner; there is nothing. Or is there? How can I not see it? _Me?_ "OK, what am I looking -" I begin with a frustrated sigh after a moment, but the rest of the question dies in my throat: John had pressed warm lips just under my ear in a soft kiss.  
Far too quickly though, he releases my arm again and giggles triumphantly.  
_God_.

Paul and Mike break out into hysterical giggles where they're standing inconspicuous in the shadows. When did they plan that? I'd been around them almost constantly!  
I'm still embarrassingly shocked into immobility, my heart pounding mercilessly quick in my chest. I haven't yet found the strength to react.  
It's John who has pity with me after a round of laughter and finally breaks the spell when he gives me a pat on the shoulder and leads me behind the rest of our class, a smile still lingering on his lips.

* * *

It's far too easy to be close to John under the cover of male friendship and juvenile affection: A pat on the shoulder here, a ruffle through the hair there. An arm slung around shoulders and waists; boisterous taunting and dares. And if my arm rests around John's neck a few times too often, neither of us mentions it.

* * *

We've never really talked about sex in our home (or in school) and it makes me really uncomfortable when the boys talk about it. That's why I only stand by and earn curious glances from the others when they do, luckily though they'd never tried to involve me into their conversation.

Mummy had only told me the most necessary things, like that there are (actually) male and female beings walking the earth and that both are needed to beget a baby. With tidy, clinical facts they unsettled me of the whole idea when I was about five years old and I didn't dare to ask again later on. What else should there be to know? They probably also should've mentioned that feelings for the other person were most preferably involved in the entire experience of intercourse.

I think our parents just waited for the problem to resolve itself in time; be it to extinguish desire altogether or to leave us to our own experience. (While I belief they hoped for the first.) I avoided the subject of sex successfully for nearly ten years, till that one night my body betrayed my mind when I was fourteen: the first time I woke up with sticky pants under my pajama bottoms. I was quite horrified to say the least, the drying sensation on my skin growing more and more uncomfortable.

I fled to the bathroom at 3:17 am and tried to wash out the worst of it in the sink; already pondering over an excuse - if someone asked. I stared at the stain of dried semen and decided that I didn't wanted anyone to know about any of this. So I wringed out the cloth and folded it carefully. At last I gave my pajama bottoms and shirt a quick once over for equal horrible evidence, luckily though, they turned out to be clean.

I put the trousers back on, hid the fabric under my shirt and made my way back to my room silently.

Between my bed and the wall was a small gap and I dropped the discarded underwear there with the intention to burn it later. I climbed back under the covers wearing only my pajama bottoms and lay awake for a few hours, forging a plan to abduct one of the many medical books in father's office. I'd rather have died, than ask anyone for advice.

Thankfully we had holidays at that time, and so I spent my days reading through all the medical stuff I could find concerning the human body.

Each time I stole a book out of the shelf, I rearranged the remaining until the absence of one of them wasn't too obvious; and if someone ever noticed it, no one ever said anything.

Luckily.

During this week, I learned not only about the male and female body (there are rather interesting and even more disgusting things to know), but also about the fact that it was perfectly normal for a boy my age to come in my pants during the night. (Apparently due to a wet dream I didn't remember having.) I should even discover that with fourteen it was an almost late development. But then I was pretty gangly and skinny (still am in fact), so the necessary hormones probably hadn't settled by the expected time. Well, I've never been 'normal' and will, almost certainly, never be.

The most unfortunate aspect however was, those spontaneous ejaculations during the night couldn't be stopped. But at least prevented by regularly pleasuring oneself, so the book supplied almost tauntingly. Though I couldn't just consciously _will_ myself to get an erection now, could I? And the thought of sex merely puts me off: all those fluids and presumably the smell... I couldn't fathom the possibility to consider it stimulating some day.

So, how to?

I needed more data.

* * *

It was only a few days later when I was forced to reconsider my denial: I was sitting in the bus home from school, when I needed to hide the beginnings of an unexpected (and _very _unwanted) erection, whilst trying not to embarrass myself at the same time.  
To blame for this occurrence was the young couple sitting a few rows down: They weren't together for long, even I could sense the cloud of new, yet unexplored arousal surrounding them.

From my point of view I could barely make out their faces, my view blocked by other seats and persons. All I was able to see was the left side of his head, his arm entangled with her's, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee.  
I averted my eyes when the man took a quick look around, but turned back after mere seconds, as soon as I dared to.

The girl was stroking his thigh in barely noticeable circles. I could see the tips of her fingers slowly tracing down to the inside over the seam of his trousers, and eventually over the swelling bulge there.  
He rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes with a sigh. She smirked at him, her fingers became braver with each forbidden stroke.  
I craned my neck with the effort to follow her hand with my eyes, until suddenly her fingers stopped and I got uncomfortably aware of eyes on me. And sure enough when I looked up, our gazes met and I could feel my cheeks heat up when I turned my head rapidly to stare down at my shoes.

The next time I gathered enough courage to gaze back up at them, they were both looking out the window, his jacket folded over his lap, their hands entwined on top.  
God, the embarrassment I felt... and the strange, helpless arousal- I'm somehow still disappointed that I had been so obvious to even got caught. Though I'm not sure what I was expecting to happen further.

For almost six months the sheer memory of this incident was a reliable source to coax me to hardness. And with each time, the entire business of self pleasuring became easier to get it over with, the release at the end - almost mockingly - soaking the tissue I prepared beforehand.

Over time the scenery changed - the place, involved people - I invented my own surroundings. Though my fantasies were never attached to someone in particular. Just hands, lips and tongues; shoulders, necks and the graceful curve of a firmly shaped bottom - all but savoured with kisses, licks and caresses.

Mostly though I kept the setting, only instead of me being touched by the girl, I fantasized about touching the boy myself. I was never concerned about this, when I thought about boys that way, did this make me 'gay'? Because I don't care and its my business, not that from others. I just don't want John or the others of our group to know, that with our kiss game and all. At least not yet.

I don't want to make him feel… uncomfortable around me - or betrayed somehow.

Inevitably I should discover that neither memory nor amplified fantasy was enough anymore. Instead I found myself more and more often recalling some of the imaginary pictures I'd taken of John, while he'd smiled at me or laughed.  
And for a few more weeks, John's smile guided me out of my desperation into shuddering release, until- until this one night when it couldn't: I lay in bed with an aching erection that wouldn't fade in spite of whatever rhythm my fingers were stroking or whichever of my favorite pictures I chose to think about.

That had been the first night I ever dared to picture an entirely new scenario: John underneath me, hard and needy just like I would be for him. He would be broader in the shoulders than me, more flesh stretching over his bones, his skin tanned. His hands calloused from hours and hours of rugby training, his firm, warm lips on mine...

Orgasm took me by surprise with a force I'd never experienced before or would even have expected - not a single drop landed on the prepared tissue.  
No - instead I ruined my sheet. And my duvet. Maybe even the rug on the floor.

At that time though, I couldn't have cared less, as I was fighting for breath, inhaling in large gulps of air. It took me several minutes of measured breathing to calm down and before I even knew what was happening next, I was fast asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

One month - that's how long our kiss game is on the run. Since exactly four weeks I'm provoking John to carry on this game, that isn't one for me at all.

Of course there had been days between each kiss. Always trying to maintain the unspoken rules: Firstly, to wait for the other player to return the kiss. And secondly, to act while the other was least expecting it, because that supplied the best entertainment.

Yet I never dared to kiss his lips again - obviously. Instead I gave him pecks on his cheeks, his temple and only once on the point where neck merges into shoulder. Each time I kissed him, I wondered if he would ever reciprocate it again. Relief and remorse fighting for the upper hand whenever it happens. But I can't stop - can't help it - I'm utterly besotted.

.

The times John kisses me feel like an epiphany of sorts, indicating the best moments of this year's last summer days.

Last week it had been a warm dry press of lips against my rain damp cheek when we'd shared an umbrella. Today, it's just a soft, breathy weight placed in my hair.

At the beginning we engaged in the game only when others were around - still with vigorous taunting following each time it happened. Soon enough though, the times we kissed in front of others got rarer. As did the indignation following each kiss until it stopped completely.

To be honest, I hadn't expected him to make good on his threat from the train at all. I'd never even dared to hope for it happening ever again, so I'm thankful for every time it does happen. And that it even lasted for as long as it does currently.

* * *

Of course, as always when you think about something, it will inevitable happen.

So today it seems, is the day our kiss game comes finally to an end. And it will be neither an interesting nor amusing story. No, I'm calling it now to be rather dull in its entirety.

.

It's a tediously normal Friday with a not so normal rugby game - to which our school is, apparently, lucky to be host of - when the story begins.

And of course it starts with John flirting: This time it's Alice, one year above us. He has talked about her before with Paul and Mike. She has long ginger hair, dark eyes and 'nice breasts' - god I hate it when the boys talk about girls as possible love interests...

.

John had asked me to get him something to drink for the rugby game, since he was 'already running late'. It was true, so how was I to know that it was actually an excuse to leave him on his own for a moment? Now when I come back, I find them standing next to the entrance to the boy's locker room. And I stop just inside the doorway of the corridor, frozen into immobility.

John's leaning against the wall, his hands pushed into his jeans pockets. Alice is rather close to him, making up even more distance by leaning forward and sending him a flirtatious smile. John grins back widely, he's definitely enthralled, his body language gives him away. Not that John would be one to hide his interest - not for pretty girls that is...

But he's not the only one: She shows all the signs to enjoy the flirting, if she wasn't the one to start it in the first place. Curling her shiny hair around her fingers or standing with her hands on her hips, inviting him to _look_ - and the laughing... True, I can't hear them from my standpoint, but I can't imagine that whatever John was telling her to be this_ funny_.

.

I don't know what to do. When I interrupt them - will he be annoyed or grateful? Probably not grateful. But he _was_ running late...

The door opens next to them and brings my pondering to an end. Mike's head appears in the small gap, obviously trying to tell John that he's going to be late if he won't hurry. After a last apologetic gaze, Mike closes the door again, and John and Alice exchange a glance.

.

Now finally they'll _have to_ part. I exhale a relieved breath but, suddenly, almost choke on it: She kissed him.

She just nodded, leaned forward and pressed her lips on his. It had been chaste and brief, but a kiss nonetheless. John looks at her in wonder and I watch, paralyzed, as he reaches out for her and brings their lips back together.

My stomach lurches. The blood pumping through my veins belieing my outer calmness. In fact, I'm still not able to move. There isn't enough air in this place.

_Oh God_.

I gasp for breath. It reeks of old sweat and cheap deodorant in here and I feel nauseous all of a sudden. Never before had this smell affected me. I need to go, but my feet are not obeying me. I can't - I swallow hard and force my eyes closed.

Leave. _Now. _I turn on my heels and flee the place. Rushing down the corridor I hear the doors fall shut behind me with a loud bang. I don't care.

Why, John? Why must you hurt me this way?

It's so wrong to be envious. So wrong to wish it for myself.

Again.

I'm piteous.

* * *

John steps onto the field ten minutes later, as the last one of the entire team. Luckily for him neither our teacher nor the referee has noticed. He's searching the crowd with a frown.

Is he looking for me? Or for Alice? I grit my teeth at the thought.

I'm sitting aloof from where I usually stay during training when I watch them play.

John looks lost, while our teacher shoos him onto the field. One last time he turns and searches the crowd. Maybe he really is looking for me after all... And there it is again, the spark of hope.

Slowly, I raise a cautious hand and John's eyes settle on me in an instant. He sends me one of his addictive smiles, nods in acknowledgement and finally devotes himself to the game.

I feel myself growing warm. I can still feel the irrational stab of betrayal, though, luckily, not as consuming as before. Knowing that I don't have any right to feel this way, doesn't make it any better.

* * *

We're losing.

I don't care really. Only for John and the crestfallen expression on his face. There are only fifteen minutes left to play and I doubt that we'll catch up to our opponents.

The other team has produced a solid defence and it seems to be almost unbreakable. It took me half an hour to find a weak point in their defence at all. If I could just point John in the right direction... Another problem seems to be, that those boys are ruthless in their game. They tackle our players off their feet with a crushing force. Even our teacher doesn't look angry, when Mike is confronted with one of them and just drops the ball instead of getting crushed.

John is, in fact, quite good at predicting where the ball will hit the ground and where it will go after it bounced, but this won't help him today. Unfortunately. I watched him play so many times already, and it still entrances me how he snags the ball out of the air, with a graceful stretch of his body. The sheer beauty of it is just captivating.

I hold my breath when he stumbles but catches himself quickly and accelerates his tempo. The other players pick up speed as well to steal the ball right back. John breaks through the defence deftly, going for a Try. He managed it just where I thought the defence to be weak and John hadn't needed my help at all.

He's almost reached the goal-line, when someone tackles him off his feet brutally. Falling, they collide with yet another team player of the guests.

.

Time seems to slow down while I watch them land on the grass in horror. John getting buried underneath the broader and heavier boy and lands, in an unlucky twist, halfway on top of the other one.

A whistle sounds somewhere and I leap to my feet in a rush. People around me now muttering and standing up to get a better look of what has happened.

"Move! MOVE!" I yell at them and shove my way through the crowd and, finally, the players on the field surrounding the three boys still lying on the grass. At least they had disentangled themselves from each other.

John is clutching his stomach and his face is a mask of pain._ God, please be all right—_

"John!" I fall to my knees right next to him, my hands searching his torso for broken ribs and fractured bones.

"Sherlock—" John gasps, while I continue my search hurriedly. "Jesus— Sherlock— What are you— I'm _fine_—" He assures me at last and takes a deep breath.

I force my frantic probing hands into immobility and look up at his face.

"All right?" I ask again, I don't care that everyone beside us is staring. Why are they even standing here and glaring, someone should call an ambulance or the nurse—

"Yes," John hisses and tries to sit up. "I'm good, he just knocked the air out of me."

I exhale relieved and help to ease him into an upright position, just like he had done this one time in class. He still looks pale as a sheet, but at least his breathing seems to be back to normal - mostly.

"You OK?" John asks me now and looks worried of all things. I snort at him in answer, getting on my feet.

"You're the one still sitting on the field." I tease him, he doesn't need to know my heart is still pounding.

He only looks up at me for a split second, then huffs a laugh and reaches out for me. And I pull him to his feet with a grin.

* * *

The rest of the game passes without any accidents, luckily, and finally we're heading back to the locker room. As predicted we'd lost the game in the end. But none of the boys seem to be all too disappointed. Maybe just relieved that the game is over and the mood is getting better already. I sit down on the bench next to John like I always do, no one appears to mind. They've eventually accepted me as one more of John's friends a while ago. Not that I would've cared if that wasn't the case.

John, though, seems to hang behind. I'm not sure if it's caused by his fall earlier, or if he's just exhausted. Maybe he even does it on purpose but it is rather obvious. The others are ready to go, when John is still sitting by, taking off his t-shirt. One after another they leave, declaring John's actual state of undress as hopeless. Mike hesitates as the last of them on the threshold, looking back at us. He looks to John than at me and I give him a shrug. I don't know either.

Mike bites his lip and finally wishes us a nice weekend before he goes, softly closing the door behind him.

.

After a moment of silence I look at John next to me. "Are you all right?" I ask again, maybe for the fifth time that day.

"Yeah," John says and stands up. He toes off his shoes and sheds his trousers unceremoniously right in front of me. It requires an embarrassing amount of self-composure not to stare at him while he's changing. Instead I check my shoelaces or the accuracy of my fingernails. Silence hangs between us and I don't know how to change this. He is usually the one trying to engage in conversation. What has happened between the end of the game and arriving in the locker room?

"You know, it won't alter anything, right? Me and Alice being together." I look up into his eyes, startled by the sudden topic. "We'll still meet up, not only in class."

"Oh good," I say, looking back down at my hands. How could I express the sudden threat I feel, coming from her only for your attention?

"If you were worried."

"I wasn't worried," that's not true though, I am.

John nods and silence settles around us again, not as thick as before though. He finishes changing in silence while I stare at the floor, thinking about what he just told me. To be honest, I don't know what to do with it. How to feel about it. I just hope he'll remember this at a later time.

"You could come over to my house later," John breaks the silence eventually, looking up.

"When?" I ask, walking over and stopping in front of him. With a pleased warmth spreading through me, I watch him tilting his chin up to hold my gaze.

He shrugs, "Now, I guess. Maybe even stay the night?"

I nod slowly with a lump in my throat. I find myself unable to look away from his steel blue gaze.

_God_, even after an entire rugby game he doesn't smell bad. Just — _different_. I'm fighting with the sudden impulse to lean down and kiss him. Not his cheeks or his forehead, but his lips. Realising only now, that I've been thinking about it since I watched John and Alice do just that.

.

Of course I can't, though. I'd have no excuse other than the dull ache in my heart. I can't do this to him. Especially not after he'd just told me that 'it won't alter anything'. And dismissing it as part of our game is out of the question, since there's no one else around. I'm scared of the meaning it would expose all too blatantly if I'd kiss him now.

His eyes watch me with - do I dare say it - expectation. Does he sense it? The unbearable longing inside me? Does he pay attention to such things, like I do? Like I saw the evidence in various faces, male and female alike. The longing, the desire, the... love? It was after all only a question of time until - well until he'd _know_.

What is it he sees? Dilated pupils, my lingering gaze on his mouth at which I'm staring helplessly?

Can he feel it?

My pulse rushing under my skin — my heart beating too fast, too loud?

.

He turns around and bends his knees to re-tie his shoelaces. The tips of his ears are pink, the moment broken.

So have you seen it, John? Are you embarrassed now? About my behaviour? My all too obvious demeanour?

He stands again and looks back up at me and I have to swallow down the sudden rush of panic.

Have you made up your mind? You don't want me in your life any longer, do you? The promise you gave me, are you already regretting it? Have you—

"Coming?" John asks, and walks past me.

I watch him go and stop in the doorway, looking back at me. Maybe you haven't seen it after all. Or maybe you chose to ignore it. For now anyway. The panic dissipates a bit, but not entirely.

I nod slowly and follow him on his heels, just like I always do.

* * *

The distinctive smell of burnt food reaches us as soon as John unlocks the front door. With a curse and an uttered apology, John makes his way through the vestibule into the kitchen. I wipe my shoes on the doormat with care, scrutinising the withered plant in the corner and the dust on the others. I give everything a second glance, waiting for John to come back. I rock back and forth on my feet, politely ignoring the suppressed voices inside the house.

Eventually John reappears on the threshold of the other room, sending me an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry," he says, low, "usually potatoes are a thing, Granny's able to prepare without ruining it."

I shake my head, dismissing his concern. "It's all right, I'm fine for a bit, I ate this morning."

John huffs and sends me a look that says 'yeah, heard that one before' with a hint of exasperated fondness. Oh John, get over it, it was only one time! He turns nonetheless and gestures me to follow him in.

.

Dinner is rather awkward, while we push burnt potatoes from one end of the plate to the other. I'm asked for my name three times and get twice mistaken for someone else, even John didn't seem to know. So in the end, I'm not the only one relieved, when John finally opens the door to his room.

I feel like a divine creature to get granted access to enter it in the first place. Though it's obviously nothing special. Equipped with a small bed, a desk - or rather an old table reinterpreted as a desk. An old closet - enormous, in dark brown-redish wood - and a felted rug on the floor covering most of the old wood panel. The only other furniture is a nightstand with a lamp on it.

John looks at me expectantly, while I scan the room. It smells of old dust and faintly of mothballs. It can't be easy living with one's grandmother alone. When I look back at him, he sends me one of his lopsided smiles, and I gaze away quickly. This smile... I'd taken imaginary picture after picture of it, depending on light and my angle of view, as receiver or bystander. (Though, of course the times, it's directed at me are my favourites.)

.

"Why are you living with your grandma?" I ask, curious. How comes I don't even know the reason?

"Well, it just sort of... happened," John says and leans against the doorframe. "Granny's not really able to stay on her own. She forgets to eat or drink or to take the medication for her heart condition. At first Mum wanted that Granny stayed with us. But she fought tooth and nail and well, made it quite clear that she didn't wanted to leave her home. So - here I am." He stops and looks at me. "Of course Mum comes by, like every few days, restocks the fridge or cooks for us."

I nod slowly. So in fact, you went to a new school to help your family. John Watson— you're a man too good for the world we live in.

It's quiet for a moment and I shuffle my feet awkwardly.

"Well," John walks past me into the room and opens the door of his closet, "I'm just hopping under the shower. Sit tight," and with that John nudges me to sit down on his bed. I nod again, obediently — I mean what else would I be supposed to do, join him?

Oh.

This is definitely not a good line of thinking.

.

John shuts the door behind him and I'm relieved he hadn't looked back at me. I'm not sure I wouldn't have spontaneously inflamed myself of embarrassment.

I look around the room for a third time, my eyes finally settling on John's pillow. There are creases, as if he'd just laid on it a moment before... I force myself to avert my eyes, before I do something stupid.

I bite my lips and tap my fingers against my thigh for a few moments— then I give in. Cautiously, I lean to the side until my cheek comes to rest on the soft cotton.

_Oh_, his smell... My stomach lurches almost painfully.

So... our kiss game had finally found his sudden, but very much expected, end after five weeks. Well, there hadn't exactly been a letter of cancellation, but it wasn't so hard to grasp, with him now having a girlfriend and all... I probably won't be able to get so close to him for a long time, if not ever? So being able to breath in his scent in such a centered intensity was a small piece of comfort. For now at least.

I allow myself to rest there for only two minutes longer, before I sit up again with a sigh. It certainly won't be long now until John returns and I don't want him to catch me at such a mawkish act.

.

And sure enough, only moments later, the door opens and John enters the room, his hair still damp and deliciously tousled. And _God_ - he wears nothing but a towel around his waist. My mind needs a moment to reboot, shut off by this unexpected sight. The first thing that transpires is how incredibly wrong I was. John was broader in the shoulders than me, yes, but the muscles of his stomach were taut and defined, not at all like mine. There had to be some kind of reward to the many hours of rugby training after all. This is nothing like before in the locker room, now he's inviting me to look.

There's no hair on his chest yet, but a small trail under his navel, leading down, disappearing under the towel.

.

I'm staring again, aren't I? Or rather, how long had I been _looking_?

His towel drops in front of me, and my eyes widen in shock and embarrassment. But the bastard is wearing a pair of pants underneath and starts to laugh loudly.

_God_. My heart pounds so fast, I'm afraid it will double over.

"The— the look on you face—" he sputters, gasps and starts laughing anew.

My cheeks are burning - I can feel it. I turn around, grab one of John's pillows and throw it at him. Pleased with myself, I hear him grunt when it hits his stomach.

_God John_, do you have any idea what you're doing to me? You're the only one who can make me feel so bloody ridiculous in... _everything_.

"Sorry Mate," he chortles and tosses the pillow back onto his bed.

I sulk a bit while John rummages in his wardrobe for clothes. And, without constraint, pulls his t-shirt and bottoms on in front of me, while I survey the tree outside the window.

.

He settles next to me on the bed and makes himself comfortable. Stuffing the pillows behind his back, he leans against the headboard.

Without further preamble, he starts talking about the game from earlier, and I'm horrendously relieved about the change of topic.

Mid speech, he wriggles his toes underneath my thigh and I have to blink a few times to comprehend what had just happened. He really, generally, doesn't seem to have the faintest idea what he's doing to me.

.

I could have listened to the familiarity of his voice for a long while, without really registering what he's talking about. But of course I listen to his every word. I don't need to talk about my experiments. Also I'm fairly certain, John doesn't want to know how much time mould needs to cover a slice of bread, milk or apple juice.

John yawns and looks at his watch. He's just as surprised as I am to discover that it's almost midnight.

"Stay," John repeats his offer from the afternoon.

Would it be a good idea to stay? Probably not. "I can go home, I'll walk."

"Nope," John dismisses my denial. And waves his hand. "Just a sec, I'll organize a second mattress." And with that he leaves in a hurry.

I stay a bit forlorn in his room, until John comes back with a blanket and a spare pillow. I help him maneuver the other mattress over — there's a surprising amount of room to lay it on the felted rug. And soon, we're sitting on the makeshift bed on the floor and giggle.

It's so easy to spend time with him. Is it only because I discovered the truth to my feelings? Being grateful for every minute we get to spend together?

I almost want to doubt it.

* * *

We spend another hour or so debating about whether or not we'll play a game. In the end John's constant yawning takes the decision from us and we agree upon starting the game in the morning.

John turns off the lamp on his bed stand, the only remaining light is the one seeping through the curtains.

I shed my pullover and trousers in the dim light with awkward precision. Folding them carefully and leaving them on John's improvised desk. Slowly I crawl under the blanket. The fabric is cold against my skin and I settle right in the center of it. The pillow under my cheek smells surprisingly clean not as dusty as I'd have expected. John shifts in his bed and the bed creaks. He sighs. I look over at the bed, but unfortunately it lays completely in shadow.

It's my turn to sigh and I close my eyes. Maybe I'll be able to sleep against all my expectations...

.

"Take cover!" John warns suddenly.

"What?" I can't even blink when there's a pillow thrown at me all of a sudden. Another pillow and a blanket follow and then there's the telling thud of a mattress next to mine on the floor. John chuckles and a moment later he frees me of his bedding. "I hate talking to you from above, that's your job."

For a moment I feel a stab of hurt. Is this a hint at my art of talking to him and others? Or, since I'm a few inches taller than him, he just tried to be funny? I'm hoping for the latter, because I'm trying really hard to control my mood and words, especially when he's around.

"Sherlock? You okay? Are you asleep?"

I snort in an indignant manner. "You just tried to smother me with a few pillows and a blanket, so I'm awake, thank you." He breaks out into a fit of giggles and I smile into the darkness. "And also I don't need much sleep." I add in an afterthought.

"If you say so."

"Yeah..." I let the word trail off, the silence settling around us is only disturbed by the rustle of John shifting in his bed. It's not at all an awkward silence; it's comfortable, companionable. Not like the quiet we've had during the day.

It lasts only briefly, though.

.

"This is nice," John says and I hear him yawn again. I make a noncommittal noise in agreement. I've never experienced anything of this sort and he's right; it really is nice.

"Sherlock?" he asks, his voice hushed by the pillow. I hum in lieu of an answer. "What do you think about Sophie?"

I scatter through the images in my mind and come to a stop on a small blonde girl with brown eyes, who always waves at us when we walk by. Really John? You're together with your girlfriend since -what- ten hours? You talked to Sophie once or twice when I recall correctly. Between classes, while you were waiting for me.

"What about her?" I ask, briskly.

"Well, she's pretty, don't you think?"

Is she? I make another noncommittal noise in response, I simply don't know what to say to this. I guess she's okay for standard expectations. Though, she'd be too young for you, wearing all those alarmingly pink t-shirts and flower bandanas. Now that you've got Alice I guess you might be bored of Sophie within a week.

"You don't have a girlfriend, do you?" John asks, curious.

My heart rate picks up speed immediately, "No, not really my area," I say carefully. If it came out somehow weird, John doesn't seem to have picked up on it.

"Well, then that could be your chance," he says and I can hear a grin in his voice.

I blink into the darkness. Does this mean what I think it does? So... she wasn't waving at us for him, but for me? Oh.

_Oh_.

Obvious, now that I think about it. I guess I remind her of some actor or something equally ridiculous.

.

"How could you not know that?" John says keenly, "even I thought she was quite obtrusive about it!"

I purse my lips instead of giving any kind of answer. Yeah, well probably I should have seen it, but its not easy to concentrate when I just want to strangle everyone who comes too close to you.

"Don't you want one?" John asks softer after a while.

What for? For showing off in front of others? No. I don't just want anyone. I want _you_. "I don't know," I say eventually. I'm a bit startled by the topic. I didn't expect boys to talk about such things, even —or especially— with their friends.

"Are you interested in someone?"

God, John what are you asking of me? You wouldn't possibly want to hear the truth. My heart does another jump. "Maybe," I say, let it hang there between us.

"Do I know this 'someone'?" again the grin in his voice.

Are you teasing me, John?

Either way, I have to swallow against the nervousness nonetheless.

Oh John, you know him better than anyone else, can't you see it? Don't you get it? "Maybe?" I say instead, slowly.

He stays quiet, which makes me even more anxious.

Am I supposed to tell you? Because I can't. Not yet. Probably not ever. "Are you all right?" I ask after few more moments of silence. _God_, I find it difficult to talk about such things. I have no idea how John does it. On the other hand though, he's not talking about me here, so...

"Yeah, fine," John says and shifts again under the covers. I can't place the tone in his voice. Does he feel rejected? Angry? Or even sad?

And... why? Because he thinks I don't trust him enough to tell him?

"G'night." John mumbles into his pillow.

So, that's it then. Am I relieved or disappointed? I don't know.

"Good night, John."


	6. Chapter 6

When I wake up the next morning, I can see dust motes floating in a shaft of sunshine. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, flabbergasted. I haven't expected to fall asleep at all, but here I am. Slowly, trying not to make any noise, I turn on my side and look over at John. He seems to be still asleep, lying on his stomach facing the other direction. One hand under the pillow, the other stretched out over the edge between our mattresses. It almost looks as if he'd been reaching out for me in his sleep.

Oh if only…

I watch him for a few moments. Oh, what would I give to see his face in this moment? Soft and relaxed, no worries on his features for once, where normally all his concerns seemed to rest. The bedclothes rustle and, panicked, I close my eyes. I hear some more shifting and John clearing his throat. A muffled groan indicates a languid stretch…

"I know you're awake," he startles me with a chuckle.

I open my eyes slowly, feeling sheepish. "How can you tell?"

He sends me a lopsided grin in response, before he sits up and chomps a hand through his hair. "Since you'd fallen asleep, this was the quietest you've been all night." There's a small pause and then he says, "You talk in your sleep."

I blink at him from below. "No," I say, and it does sound rather alarmed.

He chuckles again, "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

"No," I assure him again.

He huffs amused, "Okay, mate. I get it, when you don't want to talk about it. To be honest_—_ It didn't sounded very… agreeable."

.

Hm, at least I wasn't talking about you… But I can't recall any dreams... Instead of an answer, I clear my throat awkwardly and turn on my back. Watching the ceiling, I hear John yawn beside me. I gather all courage left with a deep inhale. "If I were to talk in my sleep, what would I say?" I ask, still not looking at him.

"I don't know, mate. I was practically asleep too. Couldn't make much out with your mumbling. Sounded a bit like you were worried about a_—_ um_—_ Red... beard?"

I freeze in shock. Redbeard. Well, that could be something not 'agreeable' to dream about. Quickly, I school my expression into a look of utter confusion.

"Doesn't ring a bell?" John asks.

"No," I say and the lie rolls easily off my tongue.

"Well sorry, guess I misheard then... Had been a long shot anyway," he shrugs. I shake my head dismissively. I don't want him to know about this chapter of my life.

I still remember the day my parents brought home a six years old Irish Setter. Probably to fill the gap Mycroft had left behind when he'd gone to university. I didn't care why they did it, I was just so grateful that I finally had someone to spend time with. And who actually enjoyed being around me.

In the years following, we had been inseparable. Unfortunately though, that time was over far too quickly. After only four years, they took him from me, when the vet told us Redbeard was in pain and it would be gruesome to let him live. Even today, I still keep memories of the auburn colored canine in a separated room of my mind. And I turn back to them, whenever I feel particularly bad and can't bear to think about John.

Back then, my parents offered to buy another one, but I didn't wanted them to. Losing someone you've grown attached to, I learned, was harder to accept as being alone in the first place.

That's why I always try to keep myself distant. Well, until John walked in and claimed space like he belonged there.

I don't regret that though. Letting him in. I couldn't, even if I tried.

.

"You okay?" John asks, pulling me back into the present.

"'Course. I'm fine," I sit up too and stretch just to do something. "Tired." I say when my eyes meet his concerned ones.

He nods slowly, standing up. "I'm checking for breakfast. Back in a few," and with this he leaves me alone.

I follow him with my eyes and look around the room. Now, from below and with the sun creeping in through the curtains, it seems entirely different from last night. My gaze settles on John's vacated mattress and I sigh about the missed opportunity.

Cautiously, I stand up to put my clothes back on.

* * *

Apparently John's mum had chosen this morning to come over and cook breakfast with the supplies she brought with her. John tells me as much when he comes back five minutes later. I can only nod in response to the question whether I like eggs, toast and bacon. What else could I say? I'm still a bit taken aback by the sudden prospect to meet John's mum.

We make our way down the stairs and I stop on the threshold to the kitchen.

"Good morning, love." She greets, tousling John's hair, when he walks past her to get plates. She turns to me, inviting me with a warm smile into the room. "And you ought to be Sherlock! I've heard so much about you!"

I glance at John when he hands me a plate, generously loaded with food. At least he has the decency to look apologetic. When did he told her I'd be here too? His mum cracks some more eggs into a second pan."I hope you're hungry. John told me you fainted in class."

I look at him horrified, but he chuckles. I can't believe he's told that story to his family - there's no point in denying it now, is there? I don't know what to say, so I only manage a weak 'thank you' and leave the kitchen behind John, feeling embarrassed.

.

The girl with the dark blond hair sitting at the table, is so obviously John's sister, that I have to suppress a smile. Her eyes widen in surprise when I walk in. I guess she's as nonplussed as I am to find myself suddenly in the midst of the Watson family. Sitting down I nod at her politely, since John doesn't make any move to introduce me. Though I guess she already knows who I am.

Breakfast passes with halting conversations, while John's mother talks with his grandma. Or him and Harry bickering about stuff only siblings could know the origin off. I follow their conversation with amusement while I push my bacon from one side of the plate to the other.

"Harry," her mum says after a while, "We need to hurry up, you should do your homework as long as Marcus is still around to help." Harry grimaces in disgust, but doesn't say anything. Who's this Marcus? Probably the Mother's boyfriend.

Only after her mum has resumed the conversation with John's grandma, Harry turns to him. "Why is it that no one pushes you into doing your homework," she accuses John with a scowl. "I could live with grandma instead of you."

John huffs. "I'm older. I'm the responsible one. I don't have to be told to do my homework, because I'm smarter than you. I got all the intelligence."

"Oh, shut your mouth," Harry snaps at him.

He only grins back at her.

I watch the entire exchange with wonder. The exasperated affection between them is blatantly obvious and almost palpable. I've never acted like that with anyone of my family. Not even Mycroft and I had a relationship like this. Maybe because we have a few years more between us. Or possibly the fact that no one of my family ever cared for food or companionship while eating.

Actually it's quite possible my absence last night wasn't even noticed. Though to be fair, it hadn't been the first night I didn't return home unannounced.

.

Harry and her mum leave twenty minutes later and I help John to wash the dishes. The wet splashing of water and the clinking of china is the only sound between us. It's so easy with him. We don't have to talk to fill an awkward silence and just_ that_ is one of the reasons I'm in love with him.

There is but one thing that bothers me increasingly since John and Alice became a couple_—_ besides the obvious reason that presents itself: It's that John now often smells different from before. Instead of the soft earthy scent of his deodorant, he would reek of vanilla from a cheap perfume brand. God, it makes me sick.

Every time I get near him and he smells like Alice, I'm almost choking. But this is still better, than not having him around at all. So I keep quiet and inhale through my mouth, blocking out the disgusting scent of someone else being allowed to touch him. While in silence I lament the fact, that I am not one of them.

And in the unlikely event he'd ever became mine to touch, I'd like my smell to be all over him.

* * *

John's seventeenth birthday passes almost unnoticed while he and Alice are having a fight. I don't know what it is about and John doesn't tell me, but I'm feeling smug nonetheless. They're a couple for almost two months now, and the burning jealousy hasn't left me the entire time. Not that I'd expected it to, though.

God, I hate it when I have to look at them. When they're not currently fighting, then they're touching. One arm slung around the other, holding hands or stroking whatever part of arm, leg or back is in reach. Then, of course, there's all the kissing going on. Completely oblivious of whether or not someone else is around.

Most of the time that 'someone' is obviously me.

Oh, I loathe the look in her eyes. Sometimes it even seems like she deliberately leaves her eyes open and fixed on me while she's kissing him.

She knows.

I guess she's trying to challenge me. Though, what does she expects me to do about it? I wouldn't do her the favour to get upset, wouldn't destroy John's happiness however brief it would last or however deeply it'd hurt me. I would never do that to John Watson.

What Alice doesn't know, and this makes her provocation almost bearable, is that John has lost interest in her. You only have to look at his face. I could write an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his behaviour. So why is John doing this? Why keeping her? Just to have a girlfriend to show off with?

Sadly, this could even be true.

.

This argument they're having right now, isn't their first, but at the moment I'm wondering if it might be their last. If their relationship will recover at all, because it had never been this bad before. They almost stopped talking to each other altogether while I just stand by and let it happen.

And while he still asks me from time to time to join him and Alice, I decline his request every time. I don't want her argument in the end being that I had "always been lusting" after him and "ruining their dates on purpose". Even if it were true. Which it wasn't.

Not all of it at least.

* * *

Finally, after seven weeks and three days, my nightmare is over at last: John and Alice part ways. I don't know who ended it, but I don't care either way. I'm just so damned relieved that it's over.

So tonight we're at Brian's home to "mend the broken heart" as Alex had so nicely put it. I'm not at all surprised that there's beer waiting for us, nor that Paul brought some more "entertainment" in the form of some marihuana. (I came to know, that sharing drugs is a thing 'friends' do when they're young.)

Beside me, John inhales deeply and holds the smoke in for a moment, while he passes the joint to me. He releases his breath and I watch him with amusement while he coughs and coughs. I take a quick drag myself, without sucking the smoke into my lungs and give it to Paul on my other side.

"Ugh," John groans, stroking his hurting throat. "I don't feel good at all. I might be sick by the next round."

I cover the smile curving my lips by taking a swig of my bottle. No one needs to know how delighted I am that John doesn't like the conventional stuff expected of us youths.

"How do you feel?" he asks me, his words almost slurred. He's had a few beers already and I guess the dope is not helping to improve that.

I raise an eyebrow at him, "Better than you I presume."

John giggles and Mike gives a grunt of dissatisfaction. He had fallen asleep about an hour ago. Bless him.

Alex and Brian are talking with each other opposite. "Have you done this before?" John asks me lowly, receiving the spliff from Brian. Ah, so there it is, the typical cliché, first side effect of marihuana: talking. I'm curious when the second step occurs: eating everything available.

I shake my head no. "I don't like it when my head gets all... fussy," I admit in the end. I tried smoking a few times, nicked some cigarettes from my father when he's annoying, but that's all my history to date with recreational drugs.

"Oh," John muses and takes another drag. When he releases the smoke this time, he doesn't cough and looks pretty pleased with himself. He passes the joint to me and I give it to Paul without even pretending to take a drag.

Nobody notices, or cares.

.

"Well John," Paul initiates. "Honesty hour. Have you at least slept with Alice?"

I jerk my head first in his direction, then in John's.

He looks positively like a tomato. "Um," he starts, and my heart stutters.

Paul grins smugly at him. "I take that as a 'yes' then. Good for you. Congratulations!" He leans over and pats John's shoulder and if it's possible, he gets even more red in the face.

I feel the need to leave and drown myself in the graveyard pond. "Right back," I mumble and get to my feet. Now it's me feeling sick.

"Third door on the left," Brian offers. I nod a thank in his direction and turn around.

"Oi! Wait!" John calls behind me and the others shush him, while Mike grunts again. "Sorry!" he whispers loud enough for all to hear and giggles. I wait for him at the door and together we make our way down the corridor.

.

Our gentle breathing is the only sound in the darkness surrounding us, and I use the lack of light as excuse to brush my shoulder against John's.

He doesn't seem to mind. Though, the tense feeling in my stomach won't fade.

More jealousy?

Disappointment?

Both?

I mean, what did I expect?

I clear my throat once, when we arrive at the loo and he gives me an expectant look. "Why didn't you tell me?" I ask tentatively.

He sighs, steps over the threshold and closes the bathroom door in my face.

Oh.

Not good?

_Stupid._

He's not the man who boasts in front of his friends.

.

I purse my lips and lean against the opposite wall. The soft, telling noise of John peeing reaches my ear and so does the sound of the flush eventually. He stays for another few moments, water purling behind the door. When he reappears in the doorframe, I have to blink against the sudden light.

John sighs. "Sorry mate, I'm a bit mortified about the whole thing."

I shake my head, "I shouldn't have asked."

He seems to have sobered up a bit, and now I can see that the tips of his fringe are wet. "No it's all right_—_" he groans, "I would have told you but_—_ there _is_ nothing to tell, ok? Nothing happened."

I swallow against the sudden relief washing over me. "May I ask why?" I murmur self-conscious.

Is it okay to ask this between friends?

At all?

And do I even want to know the answer to that?

Another sigh in resignation and then John blushes again. "Because when we were on her bed_—_ she had already taken off her bra and_—_ and she removed my pants and_—_" he stops briefly, gathering some courage. "And then she took me in her mouth, and I_—_ well, I _came_ and_—_ well...," he trails off again.

I clench my jaw, the scene playing out in front of my mind's eye clutches my heart, it's unbearable.

John huffs a laugh and settles next to me, "I think she was pretty disgusted. I wasn't wearing a condom yet, so..."

_Oh god._ My heart pounds loudly in my chest. Why are you doing this to me? Please just stop. I can't take it anymore. I feel like I'm drowning, I can't stand another word more of this.

Why her?

I wouldn't have been disgusted. I'd have sucked you till you came, with my name on your lips. Then I'd have stroked you back to hardness to suck you again, until you'd be oversensitive and spent and would beg me to stop.

God, what am I thinking? _Stop being ridiculous._

.

He's looking at me now.

I didn't actually say any of this out loud, did I?

No. He's waiting for me to say something.

But what?

'Won't happen again'?

'Don't worry, that's normal. You're still too young and inexperienced'?

I run quickly through a few other possibilities in my head. "Sorry," I mumble in the end. _I'm not. _He chuckles and the awkwardness surrounding us clears away. "What?" I enquire confused.

"Nothing. You just don't seem to be interested in such things."

_I am when it has to do with you._ I make a non-committal noise and shrug.

Another few moments pass in silence, until he bumps his shoulder playfully into mine. "Go on then, the others are waiting for us."

Are they?

I don't think so.

I nod slowly and close the bathroom door behind me.


	7. Chapter 7

Later that same night, I call a cab to get John home, since I don't trust him being able to walk and stand long enough to take the tube. Initially it was planned that we'd stay at Brian's like everyone else, but after John had thrown up once, I agreed to take him home - to the great relief of the other's.

It requires some clumsy maneuvering to put John into the back seat and I climb in behind him. He looks so very pale in the half light and I hope he won't be sick again. At least not until we arrive. I give the cabbie the address to John's grandmother and sit back to find that John is almost lying across the backseat. While the cab pulls off the kerb, I work him into a more or less upright sitting position and settle next to him.

.

The soft murmuration of the engine seems to act like an hypnotic and it's not long until John's breathing evens out and he falls asleep.

I watch him in the passing light of the streetlamps, his eyelashes a soft shadow on his cheeks, his lips a hairbreadth apart. He looks so peaceful, so vulnerable. So... tempting. He trusts me so much. Would he notice if I'd lean over and kiss him? Would he be upset about it, if he'd wake up or find out?

I've done it before and got away, why should this be any different? Well, after our kiss game had ended I couldn't possibly use the same excuse.  
Pity.

.

John sighs and slouches a bit deeper in his seat. His head tilts to the side and his body follows the motion unresisting, until he's resting against my shoulder. I'm so surprised, I forget how to breath for a moment.

So close. He's so close. His hair tickles my jaw and I can smell the smoke still clinging to the silky strands.

Oh God, I don't want this taxi ride to end.

.

Luckily our cabbie - as most of them - is awful and the route he takes us is longer than necessary. I know at least two ways which would take us home faster and spare us roughly about seven miles. I don't say anything though. I don't mind at all. If you'd ask me, I'd like him to take yet another route to last even longer.

John's sleep is fitful where he leans against my arm. It's not really surprising, that with the alcohol and marihuana in his veins. My bony shoulder under his temple also isn't a very comfortable pillow, I guess. I try not to move too much, when he twitches and grumbles in his slumber.

Could I lean my cheek against his crown? Would he mind this if he woke up? If he did, I could pretend to have fallen asleep as well...

.

Before I can make up my mind, though, the cab pulls up at John's home. I didn't notice our surroundings after all. And there goes another opportunity. Damn.

I wake John slowly, with a gentle rub of the shoulder not currently leaning against me. He blinks his eyes open, without moving otherwise, looking with tired eyes up into mine. "You're at home," I supply helpfully when he stares at me confused.

He sits up in his seat with some difficulty and wipes a hand over his mouth. He clears his throat and slowly bends over me to peer out of my window. He leans so far over, he brushes my chest with his arm and I can smell the alcohol on his breath. My heart does a little jump.

"I- I don't live here," he slurs eventually, narrowing his eyes against the darkness. If the situation wasn't so compromised, I probably would've laughed.

"You're right," I allow looking down at him. The wide grin I earn for this statement is almost too good to be true. "Though, since our cabbie took a different route and entered the street from the other direction, you might want to reconsider your statement."

There is silence following and even I can sense the cabbie's patience wearing off.

"What?" John inquires and this time I'm not able to suppress the giggle trapped in my throat.

"There," I say explanatory and nod to his window. John turns his head cautiously as if something would attack him if he'd move too quickly.

"Oh!" he exclaims when he recognises the lit torchlight illuminating the entrance of his grandmother's house. Smiling, I pay the cabbie while John searches for the door handle in the gloomy light, until I give in with a sigh and open the door for him. He really seems to be quite out of it.

.

He stumbles out of the car, giggling and I hurry after him to keep him from falling car drives off while I urge John into the right direction with a tug of his arm. I'm getting more and more worried by the second, when he looks at me as if - just now - remembering that I was even there.

"What are you-? I thought you'd- drive home?" He blinks a few times and seems to struggle to open them again.

I sigh and take his disobeying feet as an apology to loop his arm around my neck and place my hand at his waist. "Can't let you camp outside now, can I? At least not with its current three degrees." I tell him with a smirk.

He huffs and it's almost a laugh. His arm around my neck tightens briefly, before some of his weight is lifted off from me. To prevent him from taking his arm away, I catch the hand dangling at my collarbone in mine. "Stay where you are, I don't want to peel you off the floor. Again." John pauses, before he mumbles an apology. I don't know what it is for and he doesn't seem to know it either.

His pulse is quick under my fingers, where I've wrapped them around his wrist and his heavy breathing sends a shiver down my spine. I can't quite relish in this situation though, because I'm actually and genuinely worried about him in this state.

.

Pressed against each other and without further complications, we waver our way to the front door. I steady him with one arm, when we finally arrive.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing?"

I sigh into the cold air. "I'm looking for your keys."

"Uh-huh." Silence stretches between us and when I find the keys in his trouser pocket, I get uncomfortably aware of what I am doing. Slippimg one's hand in his friends trousers to retrieve a key would probably be considered as 'not good', wouldn't it?

.

My heart pounds far to quickly, than the struggle to get here could possibly be acounted for. And I swallow against the nervousness raising as a blush to my cheeks. I clear my throat awkwardly and try to make it look like it's in my opinion perfectly normal for male teens to act like that.

To my relief, the door opens with a measured twist of my hand and I offer John my arm again. I'm not sure of whether I should just grab him after the embarrassing moment that just happened, but John doesn't seem to care anymore and sinks into my arm limply.

Slowly, step after step, we master the stairs in the hall and finally enter John's room. I turn on the light and help him onto his bed where he sits with a huff.

I gaze down at him, he really looks awful. "I should go now." I really should.

"No," John slurs. "Stay," he reaches out a hand, prepared to stop me at any given moment.

I should decline his offer, but I'm not able to when he looks at me with this expression on his face. How is he doing this? I just can't escape it.

"All right," I hear myself whisper after a while and he gives me a tired smile. With a sigh, his body sways to the side and he buries his face in his pillow. The noise escaping his throat could have almost been a moan in pleasure. I smile at his slumped form on the bed.

I didn't know he gets so clingy when he's had a drink. Crouching down, I open his shoelaces one after the other and slide his shoes off. I'm rewarded with a low hum of approval when he pulls his legs up onto the bed, curling in on himself. I watch him for some time.

He still looks very pale, yet tempting even more so, now that he's in his own bed. On the other hand, I feel sorry for him, tomorrow he'll probably have a headache.

.

"Good night, John." I murmur. I've decided to leave after all and I don't know if I want him to stop me or not.

He pulls himself up with an astonishing speed and grabs my arm. "No, stay. Please, Sherlock. For me." My chest tightens and I swallow with difficulty. Does he still not have the slightest clue what he's doing to me when he says something like that?

I nod slowly.

John sends me another tired smile then frowns. "I… need the loo," he decides and it's just so ridiculous - this spark of hope which had welled up inside me before. _Remember Sherlock, he'd had too much to drink, he almost certainly isn't aware of what he's saying._

John shakes his head briefly, trying to clear his mind, I suppose. He works himself back upright onto his feet and sways dangerously.

"Shall I help you?" I offer self-conscious, ready to catch him at any given moment.

"No, no. I got that." He holds up both hands, mumbles something that may or may not have been "Fine." and staggers through the door.

I watch him go with an uneasy feeling inside me. But his steps become steadier to my relief. In an afterthought I look down at my crinkled, beer stained shirt. And - I swear - I even smell like an ashtray. "Um, can I borrow a t-shirt?" I call behind him in a half whisper, I don't want to wake his grandma.

"Yeah, 'course." John waves a hand and resumes his way.

.

I leave the door ajar, just to be able to hear, should he fall over in the bathroom. Slowly, I turn to his monstrous closet and walk over cautiously. The distinctive smell of John's laundry greets me when I open the doors. And I pause to inhale the scent for a moment.

Sentiment gets the better of me and I rifle through the stack of t-shirts and jumpers. And group them in my mind in the ones I've seen before and the ones I haven't.

I find the jumper he was wearing that day in class when I fainted. A striped one, black and white. I stroke my hand over it, as if it were a direct link to John's skin.

Would he recognise it, if I'd chose this to wear? What would he say? Would he make a mocking comment and we'd laugh? I smile at the mental image, but decide against it. His jumpers would probably be too short at the arms for me anyway.

_God, what are you doing?_ I shake my head at myself, grab the t-shirt resting on top of the others and close the doors again.

I unbutton the shirt I'm wearing and take it off. I didn't notice it was actually damp at the front; only now when I hold it against the light, I see the difference in colour. Carefully, I hang the shirt over the back of his desk chair.

I bite my lip for a moment, before I bring the burrowed t-shirt to my nose and inhale the scent lingering on it._ John._ Not entirely, just a faint memory of its intensity, but reassuring and warm.

.

With a deep sigh, I walk back to his bed and unfold the t-shirt onto his duvet. I stroke over the cloth to even out the worst creases down the front.

A chill breeze from behind me sends a shiver down my spine, before I hear John entering the room. He shuts the door with a soft click and settles back against it. I can't explain it, but the air feels suddenly charged with tension, something I'm not able to name. I don't know what to do about it. I'm frozen in my movement, still bent over John's t-shirt laid-out on the bed. I feel so horrendously out of my depth - I can't_ think_. I straighten up slowly, as if I might disturb this moment, as if something was about to happen that I had now the chance to avert - if I wanted to.

I swallow with difficulty when I hear John step up behind me. I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. I don't dare to move, don't even dare to _breath_. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss right between my shoulder blades, raising goose bumps in its wake.

I inhale shakily, closing my eyes. I think about his lips, the dip in his back when I watched him shirtless in the locker room. His stomach taut from rugby training, the small trail of hair disappearing under his pants.

"John," I whisper and it sounds almost like a plea.

"It was my turn," he says, like it is an excuse.

Blood rushes in my ears and I feel my heart pounding fast, as if trying to burst out of my chest. He even might be able to hear it. What should I say? Does he want me to laugh it off? Lighten the mood which clings to our every action? _Just don't do anything you'll regret later_, my inner voice urges me. _Don't do anything_ he'll _regret later_.

.

He's still standing too close to me and my back tingles where he'd kissed me. _Kissed me_. God.

I can feel him breathing warm air against me. His proximity makes me dizzy. I inhale deeply and try to do the right thing, to give him the opportunity to decide.

"Aren't we a bit too old for this game?" I ask, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. The question rings in the silence of the room, like the first thunderclap of an oncoming storm.

John keeps still for a moment. "Yeah, we are. Aren't we?" he says and steps away.

The room is suddenly so very cold against the naked skin of my back, now that John had turned and was walking over to his closet.

I force my eyes closed. What have I done? What was I _thinking_? After all - I want him to kiss me!

Grabbing the t-shirt on the bed, I flee to the bathroom.

* * *

I pace in the small room back and forth. From the sink, over to the loo, along the window, back to the door.

The only word spinning in my mind currently is just 'Why?' _Why_ did I say _anything_? _Why_ did I say something as stupid as _that_? _Why_ hadn't I made the move that he had perhaps (perhaps?) been expecting from me?

How was I to know, if he'd wanted me to kiss him? That he hadn't had to make the first move? And hadn't his kiss already _been_ a sort of move from him?

All these questions I don't know the answer to. Oh, I don't like not knowing. I just _can't_.

And unfortunately, I also can't stay in here and hide forever...

I groan exasperated and shake my head. I just have to face him and hope I didn't break something as fragile and precious as our friendship.

I use the loo and wash my hands and face with cold water, trying to calm me down. I stare at the mirror for another few moments, trying to gather some strength to go back into John's room. In an afterthought I wash out my mouth with a bit of toothpaste and water to get rid of the lingering taste of alcohol on my tongue.

.

Clad in John's t-shirt and my jeans I make my way back.

I have no idea how long I stayed in there and when I enter John's room, the dim lamp on his nightstand is the only light source in the room. The curtains are drawn and he lies under the duvet, in his hands a bag of chocolate chip cookies. He chews almost thoughtfully on one of them. I guess now he'll eat the whole thing and feel miserable afterwards. Although he does look the part already.

"John?" I ask, gently. "Are you all right?"

He nods once, picks up a chocolate chip from the bed and licks his fingers. I try not to stare, and am probably failing.

"I really liked Alice, you know," he tells me, before he looks up. "Want one?" He adds, indicating the cookies in his hand.

Alice? What the hell? I thought he might be perturbed by the awkward moment from before, I didn't expect such a turn in conversation. "Um… no, thank you. So - Alice. Why - what do you mean?"

.

He shrugs and stuffs a new cookie in his mouth. Chewing for a moment he then says, "I liked her, I'm sorry we split."

"Oh." I don't know what you want me to say. Should I tell you about all the signs, which showed me, you were bored of her? That brought you to dislike her? The rather obvious change in your behaviour?

God, I should have left when I had the opportunity, the situation gets worse by the second. "Maybe you should tell her how you feel." Is this what people would advise their friends to do?

.

John snorts, a bitter, rueful sound. I wait for more - for anything really - but he doesn't offer any details. I stay in the mid of the room, awkward and a bit lost as to what I am supposed to do now. I'm not better at talking about my feelings than he is. He should know that by now...

I look around the room to win some time, put my reeling mind in order once more. There is no mattress for me this time and the only chair is laden with clothes and his school stuff. Eventually, I walk over to him and sit down at the edge of his bed.

"John. If you really want her back, you should try. I think she wouldn't be averse to the idea." At least that was, what I always saw in her eyes when she watched you. Or me. I think you could fix it, if you wanted to. _And since when exactly am I the great supporter of the idea to see you back together?_ I'm really not.

John keeps still for a while, turning my words over in his head. "Yeah, maybe."

Brilliant. What brilliant advice from a man who wants you to himself. _Go get her back._ Stupid. I'm seriously fighting the impulse to punch myself.

.

"So…" I'm looking for anything else to say, to bridge the awkward silence. "Where shall I sleep?" Not the best attempt at conversation I admit, but it's a start.

John blinks a few times, he hadn't thought about that apparently. "Um… the mattress is in gran's closet, so - if you don't mind - we could share my bed."

Is this a dream? I stare blankly at him while he watches me expectantly. Do I need to tell him that I sometimes do not sleep at all? I could just sit here and wait till morning would creep in, only a few hours from now.

But when he's offering such a temptation, I'm not able to decline.

_A human being after all_.

.

I don't want to seem too eager, so I just nod slowly with a shrug. But, do I even dare to? Being this close to him and not be allowed to touch? I certainly am inclined to try.

John stuffs the cookies under a pillow and shifts in his bed to make more room for me - it really is rather small. He lifts the duvet, inviting me under it, into the impossible warmth.

When I'm about to slip in, he huffs amused, motioning to my trousers. "Do you always sleep in your jeans?" I pause in my movement. Most of the time I actually sleep naked. He wouldn't want to know this though I suppose.

"No," I say and somehow find the nerve to roll my eyes at him.

"You can sleep in your pants if you want. I don't mind."

Jesus, John. We're slipping into dangerous territory here. I give a brief nod and sit back down on the edge. I take my jeans and socks off stiffly and slide under the duvet. The warmth of his body beside mine is a pleasant change to sleeping alone...

.

I settle on my back while John rests on his side facing me, one arm under his head, the other under the duvet. I've lain down on the furthest point possible to leave space between us.

We lie in awkward silence for a few moments. My heart is racing again and an expectant shiver runs down my spine. I really hope I won't get an erection. I can't think of anything I could say to explain this. "Um- shall I turn off the light?" I ask and am relieved when John hums his confirmation.

Hm. Turns out the silence in the darkness is not at all better than the one in the light.

John yawns and another few moments pass where there's only his shifting and our breathing to be heard.

To prevent myself from reaching out, I fold my arms over my stomach. Since we both don't seem to fall asleep in the next minute, I ponder over something to say. The only thing that comes to my mind though, is Alice.

.

I clear my throat and tug at my t-shirt, before I finally ask, "So, will you talk to Alice? About the... getting-back-together thing?"

The amused huff I get in response is not an affirmation nor a denial. It's just a sound, which drives me up the wall. Why doesn't he talk to me? Can't he see that I'm _trying_? "Why did it end between you anyway? You've never told me."

John sighs. "I - I might have said something that she didn't like," he offers after a while.

What's that supposed to mean? "Which was?"

"She told me once - I can't remember why we were even talking about it - that she was playing 'Spin the Bottle' with her clique and that she had to kiss her best friend, Susan. And well- that she liked it."

I swallow thickly. "Yes?" I prompt him after a pause.

"Well, I then told her, that I sometimes think about kissing- not only girls." John admits, and I hear him exhale, relieved to have gotten it out.

I blink at the ceiling when the meaning of it finally sinks in. "Oh." _Oh!_ God is he really just admitting that he'd thought about kissing- _boys_?

.

He hums in lieu of an answer and I don't know what to do with this new bit of information.

Oh John, what should I do? What does he want me to do? Maybe he wants me to deny his obvious discomfort as something normal- something expected? Didn't Freud say anything about that matter? Ah, yes. I clear my throat awkwardly. _Don't ruin it again._ "You know, I read somewhere that it's actually quite common to think about your own gender in such a way, especially when you're in puberty."

"Oh," John says, but he doesn't seem to be convinced. "You think that's possible?"

"Certainly," I assure him. I'm a coward.

"So you do this, too? Think about boys- like that?"

Frankly, I should have seen this coming. But unfortunately I didn't. I'm stunned into silence; staring at the darkness above me.

"If you don't mind me asking." John adds, self-conscious. "Sherlock?" He prods me gently after I still haven't said anything in, I don't know how many, seconds. Minutes?

"No," I say and only realise my mistake when John falls silent. "I mean, I don't mind. You. I mean-" I take a deep breath. "I don't mind you asking."

"Oh." John says again, and seems relieved. "Do you then?"

I swallow thickly and take another deep breath, gathering all courage left. Surely I can't be mistaken, for all the tension which had settled around us. He must feel it, too.

.

Slowly, I unfold my arms and slide my hand from my stomach onto the mattress and, palm up, to the middle of the bed, bridging the distance between us. It's not in any way a demand, but an invitation and I hope John recognises it as such.

"Yeah," I whisper on an exhale. I make a calculated pause, let the silence hang. I wait for him to take the cue to - to do_ something_. And just when I'm about to lose faith, the bedclothes rustle and a warm, sweaty hand wraps around my fingers. I shudder at the contact. My chest tightens, my heart is in my throat. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze, an affirmation. "Me, too."

There's no turning back now.


	8. Chapter 8

Shocked silence settles around us and I can't tell if it is for my own, or both our daring. On one hand I half expect him to leave it be, on the other hand I hope he'd just throw himself at me already!

In the end, though, he does none of these things.

Gently, carefully, he shifts across the space separating us and suddenly he's so, so close. Our bodies almost, but not quite, touching.

His breath is hot against my cheek and the hand, which had been holding mine before, comes to rest on my neck. I close my eyes in anticipation, but he pauses. Could he possibly still believe he'd read the signs wrong? That I might want to pull away - _now_?

Oh John, always so careful.

"Sherlock," he breathes and finally - _finally!_ - leans in and kisses me.

_Oh!_

God knows, how long I've waited for him to do this and I succumb under his claiming lips; hot, scalding so, on mine. At long last, we're doing it right. No pretending, no childish explanations, just two young men and the undeniable desire to kiss the other.

And it's glorious, this slow, hypnotic slide of mouths on each others. I can't help but shudder when he grazes my bottom lip with his teeth. And -hmn - that's... odd. John parts my lips with his tongue and _oh_- oh this is... Oh, God.

.

I sigh into the kiss, opening my mouth further and he takes it correctly as an invitation to dive deeper in. I can feel where his tongue is smooth and where it's rough against mine and the exhilarating deft slickness of it is almost unbearably intimate.

I never would have thought that a simple kiss could make me feel like this. Well, 'simple' is a huge understatement. I turn on my side into his arms and John hums his approval between kisses. I hear myself make a string of embarrassing sounds and I'm really not able to suppress them, but -oh- John seems to like it.

He breaks the kiss with a groan, before he pushes his thigh between mine and rolls me over onto my back - which puts him effectively on top of me. We both gasp when our erections touch through the barrier of our pants and I can't believe he's as aroused as I am just from this kiss... God, it's so much better than I ever dared to imagine.

The haze of shared kisses and haphazardly fumbling hands is only breached by my pestering mind, trying to make itself known. I squeeze my eyes shut to force it back into silence - I just want to only feel for once!

And when John starts shifting against me ever so slightly, all lingering nags are deafened out. It'd be almost imperceptibly, weren't it for the jolt that gets sent through me with every move. I can't tell if he's even doing it on purpose, or if he just succumbs under his body's need to find release. I'm really not able to suppress the whimpers, escaping my mouth.

.

He curses, digs one of his hands into my hair and tucks my head back to leave a trail of kisses down my throat. He already shaves three times a week - while for me it's enough to do it once - and seemingly hadn't done so for a few days, because his stubble rasps against the sensitive skin of my collarbone. God, all these different sensations added together are almost painful...

Almost.

Right in the moment though, it just feels embarrassingly good. John stifles my moan with his lips and another breathtaking kiss and I can't help but thrust up against him.

He growls in the back of his throat and plunges his tongue deep into my mouth and now, there it is again, the nagging scraping at the back of my mind: Something is not quite right here. It's not his smell, no, neither are his touches. In fact I'm just lifting off the bed a bit, in order to help him get his hand on the bare skin under my t-shirt.

No, wait. It's his taste.

Alcohol. _Christ!_

"John," I try to stop him, but miss reasonable by a mile. He hums, kissing my throat again, when I deprive him of my mouth. "John," better this time, but still too far on the side of desperate. I'm rewarded with one more kiss for my effort - he's really not helping at all here.

"_John!_" I finally get out in the right tone and grab his shoulders to halt his movements and to get a look into his eyes.

We stare at each other, both panting for air, his face only inches away from mine.

"You okay?" He asks breathlessly with worry in his voice.

This alone makes me wish that, if this could've only happened while he's drunk, I'd at least be drunk too, so I could just ignore this little blemish on his side. But right now I need to be responsible here and I force down the unbearable desire to press our lips back together.

.

"You're not in your right mind," I tell him, because it's true, because he'll probably regret this in the morning.

John gives an indignant huff, before he bends down lower. "Then stop me," he whispers and closes our distance for another earth shattering kiss.

Oh, this is just not fair.

How am I supposed to stop him when I just want to carry on? I've waited so long for this. Dreamed about this. But I can't - not when he had too much to drink and will likely be repulsed by his actions.

"John. Please," I'm begging him now. Begging him to know what he's doing and to not hold me responsible for - everything. It's what finally breaks the spell and John gasps and rolls off of me.

"Oh- fuck. Oh- _Christ!_ I'm so sorry." He swears and launches into an incoherent string of apologies and curses.

No John, don't be sorry. I liked it, I craved it. I want to kiss you again. Not right now though, when you've had too much to drink and don't really know what you're doing. "John," I begin, softer now, but am interrupted by him.

"God, I'm so sorry Sherlock. I'm an idiot. It won't happen again. Promise."

I stare at him in the darkness. After all I hadn't expected him to be this quick in regretting his actions, had in fact hoped he wouldn't.

_Stupid._

.

"It's okay John, don't freak out." Don't run. Please.

I planned on offering you to repeat the kiss later in the day, when you've had a few hours of sleep and a coffee and maybe some painkillers for your headache. Now I'm just trying not to fall apart.

"Just- just forget this all happened, okay? Please."

There's a stab of hurt that completely knocks the air out of my lungs. He sounds so bloody miserable. I sit up, turning away from him and swipe a hand across my still tingling lips. "Forgotten," I say, and the lie rolls easily off my tongue.

John exhales, relieved, and makes it worse with a muttered "Thank you."

Are you happy now? Because my whole body is in agony.

Without another word, I get to my feet and flee to the bathroom, where I sit on the toilet seat with my head bent low between my spread knees. Inhaling and exhaling until my breathing is calmer and it stops feeling like a knife is twisted in my stomach.

.

It's a quarter past four a.m. when I walk back into John's room to get my things. He's on his side facing the wall, breathing evenly. I can't tell if he's faking or actually asleep, but I try not to make any noise while I look for my clothes in the dark.

In three, maybe three and a half, hours the morning light will be creeping in through the closed curtains. I won't stay long enough to see it happen.

* * *

John doesn't call me the next morning or during the day and I'm not at all surprised about that. I lie on my bed, looking up at the ceiling and wonder about whether this will be how he and I will pursue our… friendship: by being apart.

I sigh, turn onto my side and find myself staring at the t-shirt John had lent me last night. It no longer smells of him, but I can't bring myself to throw it into the laundry basket. Maybe when John asks to get it back.

It's not productive at all to think about the whole dilemma and it won't alter anything either. I'll just have to wait till we meet again and see how it'll go. Tomorrow.

I really should be doing the experiments, I wanted to conduct for a while now.

In the end I just wait for sleep to overpower my restless mind.

I'm early - earlier that I've ever been - in school the next morning, because today I'll let John choose which way our friendship will take. Because I can't.

I sit down at my usual desk in the back, as the second one to enter the room at all. Next to me, the seat is empty as always and I wait for John to come and claim it.

.

Maybe if he just sits down next to me we'll be able to leave the awkwardness from our actions behind?

I'm not ready when he eventually enters the room. My heart starts to pound almost violently in my chest and my throat hurts. He hasn't seen me yet, inclined in a discussion with Alex. John's not used to me being here so early and when he turns around he sort of falters in his step for a second, before he walks over to me and stops at my table.

"Hi," he offers and gives me a small smile.

My gaze is automatically drawn to his mouth and therefore his lips - which is a big mistake. The memory of our kiss flashes before my eyes, which is ludicrous since it was too dark to really see him, but it's enough to make me tilt my head down to hide the heat in my cheeks. Damn. How am I supposed to do this? It's impossible. I probably should greet him back though. _Come on, you need to put this behind you. He can!_

I lift my eyes again to see John biting his lip and eyeing the empty seat next to Mike in front of me.

My heart sinks when he sits down there instead.

I can see the surprise on Mike's face, but he doesn't comment on it.

It's all my own fault in the end.

* * *

John keeps some distance between us now and for the first time in a long while, doesn't ask me to join them to training and I don't want to come either. It feels just so... weird, being in his orbit and not allowed to touch. I'm rather concerned I might be staring at him even more obvious than before.

We also stand further apart from each other and every inch gives me a stab; every story he's not telling me, but laughing about with the others, makes me sad.

It seems to become blatant to the others as well, this reserved attitude we adopt to each other. But no one says anything, though Mike watches us with narrowed eyes and curious glances, which we both ignore fervently.

.

After three days more of this, Mike finally snaps and tugs me aside when I walk a bit behind the group, my eyes fixed on the ground.

"What's wrong between you two?"

"Nothing," I say, looking past him.

Mike stares at me with an unwavering glare, he makes me uncomfortable. Suddenly, he groans and clasps his hands over his eyes. "He told you, didn't he?"

I snap my gaze back to him, surprised. "He told you, too?" About Alice? About his thoughts of kissing boys?

"I knew he wouldn't keep his mouth shut!" Mike shakes his head unbelieving while I watch him, helpless.

I can't believe John told him the same. Had he tried to kiss Mike, too?

"When he said, he thought about kissing you, I told him he shouldn't ruin your friendship! Because I can see, what it means to you!" He's still shaking his head, but -

Wait. What?

"He thought about kissing _me _?" I ask, just to be sure. Please, don't do this to me. I need the diction, like John had said it. Not more, not less. No glorification, no pity. Just this.

"Yes,_ you_, you idiot!" And whatever Mike says next gets deafened out by the droning noise inside my head.

John had thought about _me_. Like _that_.

Even before that night? I need to know. "When?" I ask briskly, interrupting him in whatever rant he'd fallen into. My heart is pounding so loud, almost silencing the sounds from before.

"Uh, I don't know. A few weeks ago." Mike tells me, his voice tinged with worry. "Are you okay?"

A few weeks.

_Weeks_.

I turn on my heels and without another word, strode down the corridor in the opposite direction. I can't believe that I'm going to tell him.

* * *

Before anything else, I need to sort through my thoughts. How to proceed from here? I think the best approach would be to get him on his own, so we can talk without any interruptions. Without being seen, because I don't know how he'll react.

In the end I concluded, that the best place to have these conditions would be to seek him out at home.

I never could resist a touch of drama, so I wait until it's getting dark outside and only then take the tube and walk the rest of the way over to John's home.

Pacing around the house, I search for his window and find it dark, his curtains not yet drawn.

Damn. That's the problem when you arrive unannounced at someone's place. Chances are, that person isn't even there.

Maybe they'd met up at Brian's for the evening?

I purse my lips and lean against the street lamp on the opposite pavement. Should I just ring the doorbell and find out? Or return one other time?

I've just made the decision to come back tomorrow, when the light clicks on in John's room. So he's at home after all.

I watch a shadow walk around the room and, finally, he steps in front of the window. I have to blink a few times when I notice his bare chest and wet hair. So he'd probably just taken a shower.

His movement pauses in drawing the second curtain and John has, apparently, seen me. Caught in the act of gaping. Perfect. I raise a hand in greeting and he tentatively does the same then gestures to his left and leaves the room.

I'm so not ready to do this, but I have to. It's my only chance to do this right.

.

God, my knees are shaking. I'm really nervous. With a deep inhale, I push myself to standing and walk slowly over to his front door.

He's already waiting for me on the threshold when I arrive, although he's managed to put on pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt on the way. I'm quite relieved that he did, I might not have been able to talk to him otherwise, without embarrassing myself that is.

I give him a wary nod when I'm close enough. Oh God, what am I doing here?

"Hey," he offers with a curious gaze.

"Hello," I say awkwardly and bite my lip. I've stopped in front of him and we watch each other cautiously. "Um- May I come in?" I ask to break the expectant silence.

"Uh- sure." John frowns, but steps back nonetheless to leave me through. I lead the way up the stairs, into John's room and stop in the centre of it. I let my gaze move around the furniture to avoid looking at him for a moment, while I gather my thoughts.

John walks in behind me and closes the door, leaning back against it and I feel set back to that disastrous night. He's now even watching me, just like he'd done then.

I inhale deeply and turn around. "John, there is something... I should say- I meant to say always, but never have. And since you probably already know, I might as well say it now-" I pause briefly, I'd planned to look him in the eyes when I say this, but now I realise I've been talking to his t-shirt.

I take another deep breath and finally gaze up at him. The look in his eyes, shocked and baffled, makes me glance down at the rug on the floor instead. Damn. There really is _no way_ I'm going to say this out loud. "I- I don't have friends," I tell him instead.

John stays silent for a moment, probably confused. He clearly hadn't expected this. "All right," he says and actually sounds hurt.

I look up, hearing his tone of voice and he frowns at me. "I've just got one," I say, just to let him know how much he means to me.

John swallows and nods slowly. "Okay, I guess."

"Well, I consider you a friend anyway," I add and John seems to relax a bit. "You asked me once if I had and well, no I don't. Or didn't."

"Okay" John says again, still trying to grasp why I'm here.

God, I need him to understand. I can't run now that I've come so far. "When you'd told me, you had thought about kissing not only girls... You were talking about-_ me_. Weren't you?"

.

John goes rigid for a moment, then finally speaks. "Listen, Sherlock. It's ok. We don't need to do this. Mike gave me hell yesterday for what I'd told you - what I'd done - to risk our friendship - for a bloody kiss. And he's right. I'm sorry." He looks miserable now, while I couldn't do so much as staring at him during his monologue.

Did he notice that he never denied my question? Or was it even on purpose?

I shake my head slowly. "No John, you have to listen to me. I wanted that kiss. Badly," he gasps, but I don't let him interrupt me now that I've finally found the strength to tell him. "I reached for you- not the other way round.

"I dream about that kiss every time I close my eyes. Even when I'm awake, I dream of you. About what I should have done - said - differently for you to see my rejection for what it was. I didn't wanted you to believe that I wouldn't want to kiss you.

"But you were so bloody out of it that night and talked about Alice and I was so horrendously jealous and-" I inhale deeply (good that - breathing) and look up at him through my eyelashes.

John is watching me with some sort of amazed disbelief. "Sherlock," he says and my name sounds like something precious. "You- you_ like_ me?"

My snort in answer is almost enough indignation for all the misery he'd put me through.

If by 'like' he means being in the need to touch him at every opportunity, wanting to drown in his kisses, watching him orgasm and be certain that I had been the one to make him feel this way? Then the answer ought to be, "Yes," I say simply, although it comes out almost like a question.

John falls silent, still watching me.

.

Oh John, do you still doubt my words, my actions? Can't you see that this is just a tiny glimpse of what I really feel for you?

He has nothing to lose, not like me, he still has other friends and is admired by girls and boys alike, while I've nobody else. There's so much more on the line for me than for him, but it's no use anyway. I've already said too much and I can't bear the silence between us any longer. I take the last two steps separating us, lean down and put my mouth to his ear. "I want you," I urge him, because -apparently- he still needs it confirmed once more.

John gasps again and pulls me down into him, his arms around my neck press me against his chest in a vice like grip and I can barely breath.

I don't mind though.

Breathing is boring and totally overrated when you can have a pliant, delicious smelling John Watson instead.

I close my eyes with a sigh and wrap my arms around his waist in return.

Finally he understands - _Good Lord!_ - and the rest of the world shrinks down to just the two of us and the promise of warm, breathing skin.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Oh lovelies, if you don't like teenagers having a snog and a grope, just skip this chapter.  
It has no actual plot whatsoever. But I hope you'll like it nonetheless!

This is for the ones who were disappointed at the innocent conclusion of the last chapter ;)

Only one chapter left to go.  
Oh, my.

* * *

I don't have the faintest idea how long we remain standing with our arms wrapped around each other, in total silence, just holding on. Nor do I know, when I started to let my hand roam slowly between his shoulders and his waist.

Though when I alter my position, in order to shift my weight from one foot to the other, I can feel something pressing against my thigh: John has an erection in his loose pyjama bottoms.

He goes completely still when he notices my hardness too, while I carry on stroking his back for a bit longer, dragging out the point of no return.

Worry comes creeping back into me, that he might not want to continue this after all.

.

"Sherlock?"

I swallow against the nervousness, halting the movement of my hand entirely. "Yes?"

"Will you- um- stay? The night?"

I can't help the sudden rush of relief washing over me, and I lean my forehead on his shoulder. "If you want me to, then yes." I say and the joy I'm feeling simply _must_ be obvious in my voice.

.

John moves away carefully, his hands unfolding behind my neck and seizing my shoulders instead. I straighten up, still relishing in his deliberate touch.

He looks me in the eyes for a moment, considering, then his gaze flickers down to my mouth and back up again. "Can I- can I kiss you?"

I inhale shakily. That he still has to ask... I give him a brief nod, though my rapidly beating heart probably gives my calmness away. And, sure enough, I see a smile tugging at his lips, before I close my eyes and let him kiss me.

It's so much easier when everything is said and clear and I melt under his touch, against his chest; my arms enveloping his waist once more, while his settle around my neck again.

.

The first touch of lips is hesitant, while the novelty of being allowed to touch him is still seeping into my consciousness. The kiss doesn't stay that way long, tough. Instead it merges quickly into something more heated and desperate while John pulls me even closer and plunges his tongue deep into my mouth, venturing to stroke his against mine.

With delight I discover, that there's now only the taste of mint toothpaste lingering and not any trace of alcohol whatsoever.

This is really happening.

Willingly.

Oh, _God_.

.

John gives up in drawing me closer eventually, instead he's now gently pushing me, walking me backwards until my calves hit the edge of his bed and our kiss breaks, when I stumble back onto it.

We stare at each other, both panting heavily. He gives me a good, though probably not intended, view of his straining erection against his pyjama bottoms. I lean up onto my forearms, in an attempt to narrow our distance, even if it was only the slightest bit.

John's gaze wanders down my body, until it comes to rest on the equally traitorous hardness in my own jeans. He licks his lips unconsciously and I swallow down the moan trying to escape my throat. I need to touch him so badly…

.

He looks back up into my eyes slowly and the desire is written all over his face: in the light blush on his cheeks, the wide blown darkness of his pupils and the swollen redness of his lips.

My breath hitches when he reaches for the seam of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing smooth skin, golden tan lines around his neck and upper arms, and of course the tantalising trail of hair down to his pyjama bottoms, which were sitting low on his hips.

Oh, God. _He is perfect._

.

I let my gaze follow the lines of his shoulders down over his chest. Although I had seen the taut, gently pronounced muscles of his stomach several times before in the locker room, I'd never been allowed to just stare at John as I please.

And I've certainly never seen them in the soft, flattering light of his bedside lamp, drawing gentle shadows across his abdomen.

"Sherlock," he breathes, the tone of his voice indicating that he'd caught me staring and I look back into his eyes, almost feeling guilty for my blatant desire of his body. Though, he doesn't seem to mind. Instead he moves to slip his thumbs under the elastic band of his pyjama bottoms and I hold my breath when he pulls them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

Oh John, you're such a tease...

.

He straightens back up now, only wearing a pair of plaid cotton boxers and my eyes are inadvertently drawn to their tented state. The fabric yields under the jutting strength of his cock and the gap it leaves at his thigh is like an urgent invitation, almost begging me to touch the velvety skin that lay underneath.

Though before I can move, John gets onto the bed, placing one knee on either side of my left thigh and bending forward until he can support his weight with his arms above me. I look at him with wide eyes and the smile he gives me is almost shy, his head tilted slightly to one side.

God, he looks so... _open_. Incredibly young and... achingly _vulnerable_.

He lays it all out in front of me, probably without even intending to do so. But, this smile right here - I've never seen it before. In my entire archive of imaginary pictures of him I don't have a single one, where he looks like that.

.

Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

So - of course - he loves me. It's so blatantly obvious in his gaze just now, that I'm not able to breath for a moment. I've been so afraid that he would avoid me after my confession and now, finding out that he's- God, I can't believe it.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and lean up in an awkward angle to press a brief, almost pleading kiss onto his mouth. He seems startled by my sudden approach, so I pull back just as quickly and reciprocate the questioning, puzzled look John sends me with a self-conscious smile. He grins back at me.

"What was that about?" He asks, his eyes gleaming with joy.

I shake my head slowly, dismissing it, before John gives in - gives up - to tip his head forward and closes the last distance between our lips. And I enjoy his kiss down to the last sigh, the very last ounce of pleasure.

.

We lose ourselves in this heady kiss, until we're both out of breath and John sits back on his haunches with a fair bit of reluctance. His eyes sweep down to the small expanse of skin, where my t-shirt had ridden up, and linger there for a moment, before he looks back up into my eyes, silently asking for permission. I inhale shakily and grant it with a quick, measured nod.

It's remarkably hard to concentrate on all the different sensations: The feeling of his first, tentative touch of my stomach and the nervously contracting muscles under my skin. The surveying look on his face, monitoring my reaction to his gentle back and forth moving fingers along the outer edge of my t-shirt. And, of course, the surprising heat of his erection pressing against my thigh.

.

I watch him, watching his hand slip under my t-shirt and further up, revealing more and more naked skin in its wake. He starts to draw lazy circles over my chest, touching and teasing here and there and I can't help but gasp when he scrapes his fingernails lightly over my nipples. John exhales, like it's an answer to my pleasure - and it probably is.

"God, you're so pale," John whispers, fascinated, and I feel myself blushing under his flattery. I had no idea it could be like this between us. Between anyone really.

He grips my t-shirt and our eyes meet for a moment, until I get the hint and sit up to let him pull it over my head.

Now that we're so close , I can't resist the temptation any longer and wrap my arms around his waist once more. John sighs contentedly when I place kisses against every part of skin I can reach. He slips one hand into my hair and the other down between my shoulder blades, pulling me impossibly closer to him.

.

I relish in the desperate little sounds he makes and the shallow motion of his pelvis, trying to find some friction to rub against.

We both gasp and freeze in our movement, when our erections align and we exchange a heated glance, before he deliberately bucks against me. The moan escaping my throat is embarrassingly loud and John silences any other of my needy sounds with deep kisses and his skilled tongue.

It takes some more experimental shifting until our hips start to move in rhythm, but soon we're pressing against one another in sync, in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Christ, it feels glorious. But even this is not enough, could never be enough, so I lean backwards, taking John with me, until my back comes to rest on the duvet. Holding him close, I twist my body around and roll us over - which puts me above him this time.

.

Due to the sudden movement, our sealed lips break apart, and I smile about the confused gaze on John's features.

"Wasn't I on top just a second before?" He enquires, frowning, but there's a grin in his voice.

"Yes," I say, my voice almost a purr. I shift my weight deliberately to press him further into the mattress and am rewarded with a throaty sigh, erections trapped between our bodies.

He looks at me with heavy lidded eyes, before he curls a hand into my hair and pulls my head down to kiss me with gentle sucking and demanding tongue. God, I could spend my time just kissing him.

.

We part eventually, when we're both out of breath, looking at each other with a slight smile.

I can't believe we're doing this. It feels like I've wanted you since forever, waited for you since forever.

I watch his adam's apple bob when he swallows, "_Jesus,_ don't do that."

"Do what?" I enquire frowning

"Don't look at me like that. I won't last if you do."

My frown deepens even more. "I can't see it now, can I?" I say almost indignantly and he huffs a laugh, before he pulls me down for another kiss.

.

His hands wander over my back, coming to rest on my arse and he gives it a gentle squeeze. I hum in approval and let my own fingers travel down over his ribs, holding onto his waist. I break the kiss gently, in favour of pressing my nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his delicate smell. He squirms under me, giggling softly and leaning away to prevent further nosing.

_So ticklish._

I smile against his skin and probe the pulse point there with my tongue. This time, he shivers and the sound he makes when I try it again, so full of needing desperation, is almost too much to bear.

I kiss my way down to his collarbone, too sharp and prominent under his soft skin if you'd ask me. There's a tan line where usually the collar of his rugby shirt sits and I follow the outline with my tongue. He sighs contentedly and his arms wrap loosely around my neck, encouraging me without demand. I press an open mouthed kiss onto his sternum and without hesitation, before John can even guess where I'll place the next, I close my mouth around one of his nipples and suck it gently between my lips.

I'm rewarded with a surprised gasp at the sensation and John drives his fingernails into my back.

For a second I'm caught between a feeling of satisfaction and pain about his response, but satisfaction prevails quickly. I bet 'Alice' has never done this to you.

Good.

.

I move to his other side, mirroring my action there. His reaction is not as strong as before, but he moans in pleasure nonetheless. With a gentle scratch of my teeth over the moist skin I look up at him. Our gazes lock and, ghosting a last breath, I shift lower to the tense muscles of his stomach.

"God, Sherlock, what are you-?" He interrupts himself with a low chuckle in his throat, when I dip my tongue into his belly button. I send him a brief grin in response and place a careful kiss on the trail of soft, short hair right under his navel.

John gasps again. Nothing like ticklish anymore, not squirming.

Waiting.

Hoping?

.

I let my hands, still resting on his waist, slide down a bit and hook my fingers into the soft elastic band of his boxers. I look up into his face again, flushed and heated. I can see him swallow with difficulty.

God, John. The things I want to do to you…

.

I glance down at his barely concealed erection, leaving nothing to the imagination. There's a wet spot where he'd already leaked slightly and I just can't resist it. I press my nose against the thin cotton of his pants, inhaling the musky scent of his arousal, my cheek gently caressing the bulge that was trying to force its way through the fabric.

"_Christ_-" John hisses and the hands, which had clenched the sheets just a second before, were now covering his face.

My heart sinks and I pause in my movement, looking up. "All right?" _Too much?_

"Yeah..." he mumbles, still hidden.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask quietly.

"No!" John urges, emerging from behind his hands. His tone comes out rather fierce and going by the look on his face he's heard it too. "No," he tries again softer, "stopping is actually the last thing I want you to do right now to be honest, but I'm nearly coming in my pants and I'm mortified and _God_-" his cheeks burn and it's possibly the most adorable sight in the history of mankind.

Just leave it, John. I'll do some research on my own.

.

In one swift motion, I tuck his boxers quickly down to his knees.

He's startled for a moment and then gasps in surprise, when I press my nose once more into the crease at his groin. I place a few soothing kisses there and marvel at the texture of his pubic hair, thicker and coarse under my lips.

He moans when I touch his length for the first time without barriers and I guide his erection to my mouth with one hand, the other resting on his thigh.

"Oh- _God,_" he hisses at the first contact of my lips.

.

I let myself slide onto the floor, kneeling in front of his quivering legs, angled over the edge of the bed.

I can taste him now, his precome on my tongue is salty and bitter. His hands had found their way into my hair again and were trembling slightly, holding me close. Although he tries not to force me to take him deeper in, I can feel his thigh muscles twitch under my hand and it gets seemingly harder for him to suppress the jerk of his hips.

Why so impatient? I want to savour you. Go slow. Take you apart, inch by inch, so that there's nothing but me on your mind.

.

I move my mouth up and down his shaft, varying in pace and suction. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I'm monitoring every hitch of his breath, every sigh, every twitch of his muscles and adjust my actions accordingly.

I come off a bit for air and look up into his face. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted to help him breath. He's so beautiful, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Every emotion mirrored in his features.

I release his erection to take a few measured breaths and wrap my hand around his shaft instead, giving his length a few experimental strokes. Now I feel the muscles of his thigh contract even more under my fingers. He moans and in the silence of the room the sound is loud and deliciously obscene.

Looking back up into his face, I am surprised to find him watching me with heavy lidded eyes, gasping for air when I lick a slick path from the root of his penis to the tip and am rewarded with another throaty moan. I suck the head back between my lips and his eyes flutter closed again.

I can't stand the sight any longer, my own arousal aches to be touched. I move my free hand to cup my erection through my jeans and hum around John's cock, which coaxes another lovely, desperate sound from his lips.

.

I try to open my button and zip with one shaking hand and, after some awkward adjusting, finally succeed. I groan around his prick when I'm finally able to wrap a hand around mine, without any barriers of clothing. His fingers in my hair tighten and I'm surprised to still be able to hear the delicate sounds he makes, that with the rushing of blood in my ears.

I'm quite out of breath now. It's not easy to keep the pace with my mouth while I simultaneously stroke my own erection, but John doesn't seem to mind: he's near the edge now.

My name filters through the deafening noise in my head -breathless, begging- wrapping itself around my heart and makes me shiver, pushing me right to the brink too. For one last time I suck his cock deep into my mouth and when his tip hits the back of my throat, he gives a choked off cry. He arches his back, trembling for just a brief second before he sinks down onto the mattress again, limply. His semen floods my mouth and I drink him down to the last drop, before my own orgasm ripples through me, knowing that I'd been the one to make him feel like this.

And the world turns pitch black for a moment.


	10. Chapter 10

When I open my eyes again, a few moments (minutes?) later, I find my right cheek pillowed on John's thigh. I can hear him above me, his breathing still ragged.

I lift my head cautiously to glance up his body. His left arm rests on his stomach, his hand clenching and unclenching with the rise and fall of his heaving chest; the other is thrown across his eyes, his lips slightly parted.

.

_God_, did this actually happen just now? Well, apparently yes. His taste lingers on my tongue and it's strangely, though exquisitely, intimate. I can't resist the impulse to touch my fingers to my lips and I feel my cheeks heat at the memory.

He's still naked right _there_ in front of me and I don't know where to look.

I sit back on my haunches slowly, wiping away the remainings of saliva and semen on my mouth, when John stirs above me.

.

"Oh Christ," he mumbles. "Just- just give me a moment and I'll reciprocate in a minute."

"Um-" I look down at my stained jeans. "You don't -uh- have to."

John inhales sharply and I realise my mistake at once. Was this what Alice had told him then? When he came in her mouth and felt mortified?

No, John. Don't think about her. I want you to forget her, to entirely erase her from your mind.

.

"I mean - I have already ..." I let the sentence trail off and look back up at him.

John exhales and his whole body seems to slack in relief. "Wait- when?" he asks, pulling his arm away and glancing over at me.

"When you were- when I was-" God, what do I say to this? "I- um- I touched myself."

"_Oh_," John says and he swallows, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. "Um- right. Okay." He looks up at the ceiling, I suppose he also doesn't quite know where to look.

I let him ponder in his thoughts for a moment while I stand up slowly, my knees and thighs are shaking and I hope they won't give out on me.

.

I look back down at John to find his gaze flit up to meet mine. The blush on his cheeks is back and I smile at the thought that, finally, I was the one to catch him staring for once.

"Do you have a tissue somewhere?" I ask, reaching for my discarded t-shirt, when he shakes his head with an apologizing grimace.

I wipe my hands on the fabric and turn away from him to give both of us some privacy to clean ourselves up. At last I slip out of my jeans and briefs, before I turn back slowly.

.

It's such a strange feeling, to be naked in front of him and I feel the need to cover myself, but I force down the urge and catch his eyes in a curious glance.

John finds his voice first. "D'you want to- um..?" He offers and shifts on his bed to make room for me, gesturing with his arm to his side. The duvet has found its way into his lap and I feel a tinge of disappointment. I push it aside for the moment though, to crawl onto the bed and settle down next to him.

.

A few inches of space gape between us and it feels… wrong. I bite my lip, thinking about anything to say, but again it's John who breaks the silence and I'm uncannily glad, that he's the brave one of us.

He huffs and extends his arm in a beckoning gesture. "Get over here," he instructs and I'm only too happy to comply.

I shift over to him on my side and he inserts his arm under my neck, pulling me towards him. Closer still, until there's no more space between us and I press myself against him, one long line along his body. I reach for the duvet to drape it over me as well and hum at the feeling of bare skin finally touching.

At last, I rest my head onto his chest, over his steadily beating heart and slip my arm over his middle. The sigh escaping my throat, really couldn't be helped if I tried.

"All right?" John whispers, contentedly.

I nod slowly, my cheek caressing his chest with the motion. How couldn't I be? Lying here in his embrace? It's more than just 'all right'.

He huffs amused and buries his nose in my hair. I feel a ghosting of his lips there and his arm around my neck tightens briefly, before he shifts his hand down onto my back.

His fingers start to lazily stroke from my spine to my waist and back, and my skin tingles under his touch. I hum appreciatively and begin a similar caress up and down his side.

.

Our gentle touching slows after a few minutes and, moments later, halts entirely and we're just holding onto each other.

It's incredibly warm and cozy and if I could, I would spend the rest of my life just lying here with him. I feel my eyes slip close, not able to hold them open any longer. Sleep is beckoning me and I listen to John's breathing, deep and steady and… calm.

.

"You know," John ventures eventually in a low whisper tone and slips his hand up into my hair. "I talked with Alice once. About you."

I open my eyes to direct a glare at the wall. _Why?_ Why does he keep bringing her up? Isn't it considered 'rude' to talk about your ex to your new… partner? Even I would expect it to be 'not good'. It certainly doesn't add to the moment.

"Oh?" I say, trying not to sound too indifferent as to however this story would continue.

"She said, that you were-" He pauses, searching for the right words. What could they've possibly been talking about- "Well- that you were-" _Oh._ "In- in love... with- me?" It sounds more like a question than an actual statement and he ends the sentence with a relieved exhale.

I blink a few times, my heart pounding in my chest. She told him. I have no idea what to say to this. He surely must know the depth of my feelings by now. After what I've told him before. After what we just _did_. He doesn't wait for an answer though, instead he curls his fingers in my hair and asks another question to render me speechless for a moment longer.

.

"Since when, Sherlock?"

I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat. 'Since when?' Since that rugby game, when you covered me in a spray of water. Since that time I woke up on the floor in chemistry class, bathing in your smell and looking up into your concerned eyes. Since that first time, I accepted your invitation to watch your training. Since the day you asked me, why I always sat alone.

'Don't you have friends?'

No. I told you I don't, or didn't. Not until you came along and wouldn't concede defeat in luring me into conversation, regardless of how I treated you.

_You._ It's always you, John Watson. It always has been.

So- there is no 'right' or 'wrong' answer to his question, only evidence pointing to the inevitable conclusion.

.

"Hey," John prods me gently. "Don't get lost in that big brain of yours. Stay with me. You don't have to tell me."

Oh John, I wish it were so easy. I dont know 'since when'. Suddenly it just was. I was more astonished myself at the idea, than anyone else ever _could._

I exhale a deep breath and press myself closer to him still, my arm around his middle tightening, an unspoken apology. Luckily though, he understands and chuckles softly. His fingers brush through my curls tenderly and I turn my head to place a kiss against his chest.

.

Would he be able to give me an answer if I'd ask him the same?

'Since when are you aware of my feelings?'

'Since when are you aware of yours?'

He'd often asked me to join him and Alice on one of their dates.

Did he knew then?

And did he curse himself for not noticing, after she had told him?

.

"Sherlock?" John initiates and I hum enquiring, silently grateful for the interruption of my thoughts. "Do you remember the first time you slept here? On the floor?"

I give another hum as affirmation and for him to elaborate. Certainly, I remember. Actually that entire day is burned into my memory: The rugby game and the kiss you shared with Alice. The panic that arose in me, when I watched you get tackled to the ground. Your little speech in the locker room, about how 'it won't alter anything', although so much did.

You invited me home and dropped your towel in front of me and I thought I might die of the embarrassment. And, of course, the pressing questions about possible girlfriends and interests.

.

"You said that girlsfriends weren't your area-" So he had noticed? Interesting. "- and I was so confused when you said you were interested in someone, because I'd never seen you even engage in conversation with anyone and suddenly I was wondering if you were talking about- _me_- and-"

"I was." I interrupt him gently.

He falls silent, though not his beating heart under my ear. On the contrary. It beats faster and I tilt my head to look up at him. I can't see his eyes properly from this angle, but I can see him blink owlishly. I wait for him to work out, while I'm trying to suppress the smile tugging at my lips.

"So- you actually were-"

"Yes."

"_Me?_"

"Yes."

"Oh God, Sherlock." His arm around my neck tightens again and he presses another kiss into my hair. "Why didn't you say anything, then?" John asks, quietly.

.

I think about this for a moment, lying my head back down onto his chest. "Because, you weren't interested in me." It's a mere statement, though devastating in its simplicity.

John falls silent again and eventually he resumes the brushing of my curls with his fingers. He won't be trying to object and I'm glad he doesn't. There's just one more thing, I need to know, before I can let it all slide into the past.

.

"Didn't you wonder about my constant staring?" He must have seen it, I've done it all the time. Even when he'd thought I was interested in someone else.

John's hand in my hair stops again and I can almost hear him thinking.

"I noticed that you were often looking at me, but… but I thought this was just the way you watch everything."

I can't help the bitter huff of dry laughter. "Nothing has ever captured or hold my attention like you do. All the time." Should I tell him? About the archive of imaginary pictures of him? Probably not, and so I don't say anything further, let him ponder about my words.

.

He does so for a minute or two, before he shifts under me.

"Hey," he tugs at my hair gently and I tilt my head again, to look up at him. "I'm sorry," he says with emphasis, his voice stern and… woeful.

I've never understood why people felt the need to apologize for something, they'd absolutely no power to change. But, because I can feel that it means a great deal to him and it seems right somehow, I nod anyway to accept it.

He smiles at me, warmly, just like he'd done earlier tonight and again I can't resist the pull towards him. I lean up, pressing my lips onto his and he returns the kiss, fierce and desperate.

_It's okay now_, I try to tell him without words,_ the arduous journey forgotten, now that I have you here in my arms. At last._

* * *

I make an effort not to fall asleep, though in the end, I must have succumbed under its relentless pull.

I wake slowly to find, that we almost haven't moved at all. Except my leg, which had shifted its way further over John's and was practically pinning him down onto the mattress. And my hand, previously resting against his side, was now gently moving back and forth along the border of his duvet.

For a moment I watch my fingers continuing its caress, without the slightest effort on my part. I've no idea how long I'd been doing this for and I can't tell if John can feel it either. Though, he still seems to be asleep, his breathing light and even.

.

Plucking up my courage, I carry on stroking the naked skin of his stomach and, after a second of hesitation, further down under the duvet, following the sparse trail of hair. I rub my fingers up and down, each time lingering a little longer, a litte more suggestively.

The outline of his erection is no longer vaguely discernible, but rather obvious in its eagerness and I bite my lip, not longer able to shift the blame to my mindlessly drifting hand. No, it was me stroking him, me who wanted to touch him there, to please him once more.

And neither could I refuse the insisting throb of my own hardness against his thigh.

.

When my fingers reach the coarse hairs at the base of his erection, John lets out a sigh. So he's awake. Of course he's awake.

I freeze, where I'm touching him, for a moment; not knowing what to do and waiting for him to decide.

"Don't-" John croaks, his voice hoarse from sleep. _Oh God_, I feel my heart pounding in my throat, _what have I done?_ I retreat my fingers hurriedly just as he grabs my wrist and holds it there.

"Don't _stop_." He gasps out and there's nothing left to hold me back now.

.

I wrap my hand around his throbbing length and John moans. He loops his arm free from around my neck and slips it down between our bodies, to touch my penis for the first time.

Entirely surprised by the intensity, my hips jerk with the sensation and John curses. His erection twitches in my grip, but I'm not able to move my hand.

But John, _glorious_ John, starts to move his fingers up and down my shaft and the jolt of pleasure each time is entirely unexpected in its intensity. I never would have thought, being touched by someone else would feel so... different.

.

I hear myself make an embarrassingly high pitched noise when John speeds up his strokes and after only a few more I surrender to my upwelling orgasm. My whole body is shaking, while John holds me through it.

"Jesus! _Sherlock_-" He gasps and I open my eyes, lazily and utterly exhausted.

I risk a glance up at him and he looks positively debauched, his hair wild, cheeks flushed and his lips red where he'd bit down too hard. _Gorgeous_, my mind provides, before I close my eyes with a sigh.

.

I only realise my fingers are still wrapped around his prick, when John moves my wrist a few times to stroke himself with my hand.

I force myself to open my eyes again and to regain control of my body, leaning up a fraction to be able to watch my fingers working his length. He gives a low moan and I tighten my grasp to speed up the pace.

It doesn't take much more for John to come with a loud gasp and I watch the white fluid land on his stomach, fascinated. Gradually, I slow down my strokes, until he stops pulsing under my fingers and my hand falls away limply. I let my head drop back onto the cushion as well and we lie next to each other for a minute or two, just waiting for our breathing to slow.

.

"_That_ was-" John says and I can only hum in agreement. "I mean _you_- God, _Sherlock_." He shakes his head. "The look on your face- I think I'll never forget it."

That's good, isn't it?

Praise.

I certainly like it, but, oh? Should I say something to compliment him? And what? I take a deep breath. "That, er... thing that you… that you did- with your hand... that was, um… good." I say awkwardly.

John is quiet for a few seconds and then suddenly breaks out into giddy, almost hysteric, laughter that shakes his whole body.

I watch him helplessly for a moment, my cheeks burning of embarrassment. I duck my head and reach once more for the t-shirt to clean myself up.

.

He comes down a bit and takes a few measured breaths, before he's finally able to speak. "Yeah, I figured," John says with a chuckle, leans over and kisses me squarely on the mouth. "I'm sorry," he adds.

I press the t-shirt into his hands, before I turn away from him, shifting to the edge of the bed. "I'm always glad to be part of your amusement, John," I tell him curtly.

He falls silent for a moment, while I search the floor for my pants.

"Hey you," John says and slips up behind me, wrapping his arms around my neck and pressing his cheek against mine. "I'm really sorry. I didn't meant to pique you," he murmurs and any hurt, I might have felt, melts away.  
I sigh and reach for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, before we remain in this embrace a little longer.

.

After a while, John loosens his arms and we break apart.

"Let's see to breakfast," he decides, leaps up and out of bed while I try not to stare at his bottom too blatantly. Or the delicate shifting muscles in his back and thighs. Though, in the end I drop the act in favour of watching him slip into his pants and pyjama bottoms. He's just pulled his t-shirt over his head, when he looks over at my unmoving self. "You ok?" he asks, frowning at me and even I can hear the unspoken 'Are_ we_ okay?'.

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Absolutely fine." I send him a wide smile. _How couldn't I be?_

John seems to be relieved and grins at me in return. I stand up slowly, hyper-aware of his gaze resting upon me, while I slip into my briefs and look for my jeans on the floor. Somehow I don't dare to look up at him, afraid of what I might find there. I just hope he approves of what he sees...

I find my trousers at the foot of the bed, though, while my pants appeared to be mostly clean and unsoiled from our activities, my jeans hadn't been as lucky.

.

"You can have one of mine, if you want." John offers, watching me grimace.

"Please."

He walks over to his closet to retrieve them and hands me a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. "I'm afraid my jeans would be too loose around your waist and too short at your legs, so..." he let's the sentence trail off and I nod gratefully at him. "Also, since your shirt got a little... _stained-_" he adds and directs a flirtatious smirk at me, a teasing glint in his eyes, "-I thought you might need a new one."

.

My stomach does a little twist and I swallow against the wave of an entirely different longing than food. Can I kiss him now? Or do I have to wait for him to initiate it? He surely won't mind would he?

My eyes are helplessly drawn to his mouth and when his lips part slightly, I'm completely lost. I take a step closer to him, intending to give him plenty of time to move away if he'd want to. Though, to my great relief, he not only stays, but also tilts his head back slightly to meet my lips.

It's an innocent kiss, gentle and sweet, and my heart aches for him.

.

I pull away softly, with a great deal of reluctance, but the smile he sends me is almost worth it. "Morning," he mumbles, before he leans up on his tiptoes to capture my lips once more.

I relish it the tender gesture for a moment longer after he pulled away. My eyes had closed on their own accord somewhere between those two kisses, and now I open them to find John still standing close and watching me. I feel myself blush under his gaze and look down at the clothes still clasped in my hands. I feel raw and vulnerable somehow, even after everything I feel for him is revealed and, miraculously, reciprocated.

.

John chuckles softly, gives my upper arm a gently squeeze, and steps away.

I watch him open the door and step over the threshold, pausing right outside the door to look back at me.

"Coming?" He asks and waits for me to nod, before he sends me a wink and walks down the stairs.

I stare down at the t-shirt, a smile tugging at my lips. Shaking my head at the sentiment, I pull it over my head and slip into the pyjama bottoms, before I follow John out of the room, down to the kitchen.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, it was surprisingly easy to adjust to the new level of our relationship. It changed not as much as I would've expected, maybe because I never realised how much time we actually spent together.

Though, we're not too openly affectionate with each other, always aware of the people around us.

I wouldn't mind them knowing and staring and talking. People do little else after all. But I don't want John to feel uncomfortable and so wait for him to initiate anything.

At least as long as we're in company and watched.

.

In school we'd stand, and sit, closer together in class or at lunch. Sometimes he'd squeeze my shoulder and send me a smile, that's broad and proud and loving and only for me. Occasionally, his hand would rest briefly on my thigh to stop me from snapping at teachers and students, soothing me with a pat, when I'm about to crawl up the wall of sheer boredom.

Now and again he'd even steal a kiss if he'd dare to, in the bathroom or an empty classroom, lingering each time. And when we'd part, his eyes dark and wide, and the desire obvious; he'd ask me to meet him after school at his place, for help with his homework. Which we'd then ignore, in lieu of heady kisses and touches.

It's so easy and I crave it with every quiver of my beating heart.

.

The only one who seems to know about us at the moment, is Mike. Although he never said anything, it's not very hard to determine, especially not with the way he acts. Sometimes he'd roll his eyes at us, when we're too obviously engrossed with each other, at other times he'd tell us to 'get a room' and leave us alone. Now and then he'd even warn us with a clear of his throat, to pay attention to the other persons in the room, and John and I would both realise how close we got together, step apart a few inches or hurriedly look away.

Mostly though, we save the more amorous gestures for later, when we meet in the evenings at John's grandmother or take the bus to go there right after school. We've until now not once met at my home, although John offered me to change that.

I waved his concerns away, stating that we have more peace and quiet at his house, while his grandmother is inclined in the daytime telly programme than at mine, where Maids were lurking behind every corner.

He didn't object further.

* * *

It's a friday evening and we're in the bus on our way from my home to his, after I packed some stuff to stay the weekend. It's hushed and quiet somehow, only interrupted by the amicable chatter of three schoolgirls a few seats down.

"You know, I like this jumper." I tell John, leaning my head against his shoulder. It's the striped one, black and white.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, a smile in his voice.

I nod slowly, nosing my way up his jaw to his ear. "You were wearing it that time in class when I fainted. Do you remember?" He shakes his head slowly, and I pat his knee, indicating that it's okay. "You were so close, bent over me and I was surrounded by your smell and I didn't wanted to move. And I wondered why I felt the need to cling to you so badly… I hadn't yet realised it then."

"Realised what?" John asks, his voice a breathless whisper.

I smile against his skin. "That I was in love with you."

He swallows and I feel his pulse quicken under my lips. He wanted me to say it, so I did, and now he's flustered. Oh John, always trying to be cool, although you're such a romantic.

.

I look down at my fingers, still resting on top of his knee, then tilt my head to watch his reflection in the passing shadows. He watches the landscape and people determined, his cheeks slightly tinted. I smile and roll my head on his shoulder a bit, to be able to glance in the other direction.

There are only five other passenger in this bus. One is asleep, an office worker, obviously on his way home. Those three girls still absorbed in their conversation, and the one man driving the vehicle.

Perfect.

.

I slip my hand further up John's thigh to the inside, trailing over his seam.

"Sh-_Sherlock_! What are you doing?" He hisses. Again the flustered tone, oh how I love it. "They're going to notice this!"

"Shut up then," I advise, raise my head to press a kiss to his flushed cheek.

Oh, how often had I dreamed about doing this? Touching him, here?

.

John reaches for my hand to stop me from rubbing his erection through the soft denim and I can't help the chuckle escaping my throat.

"Only five miles now and then you can touch me all you want," John promises in a low tone and intertwines our fingers. I huff an exasperated breath and squeeze his hand. He giggles this time, "Patience."

I sigh again. He surely must know by now that I'm not a patient man at all, but I'll try. For him.

.

We still have a few years together, while he studies at Barts and suffers through his Army training and while I get my degree in Chemistry at the University of Cambridge. So until he'll leave to fight for Queen and Country as an Army Doctor, I plan to make every minute count. I know he won't let myself stop him and I don't even want to try.

He is still going and I'll be waiting for him.

Patiently.

Nothing new there.

.

* * *

Thank you, thank you, thank you to whoever you might be!

Thank you dear people, reading and reviewing /  
Thank you dear people, clicking this Favorite /  
Thank you dear people for your general awesomeness.

It's been brilliant. *wipes away tears*

I hope you enjoyed my little journey and also as always, apologies for mistakes in grammar, vocabulary and typing... Sorry :/

Yours, Cara XX


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